


The Last Night

by QED_Scribblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Brothers, Child Abuse, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 23:04:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QED_Scribblings/pseuds/QED_Scribblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When tragedy strikes, Sherlock and Mycroft are left with nobody they can trust except each other and nowhere to go but the streets of London. But are they cut out for life on the streets? Or are they better off with the uncle that chased them out there in the first place?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Centuries before either Ivor or his younger brother Siger were born, the Holmes family had been known throughout Britain for both their enviable fortune and the quiet influence they exhibited throughout all of their various enterprises.

They had commanded numerous small towns across the county of Yorkshire, employing most (if not all) of the villagers within their various manors and the grounds therein.

Aside from that, they were also known to dip their toes into the waters of government, law and even the military from time to time – dominating any battlefield they set their eyes upon with both their naturally formidable intellects and the innate talent for problem-solving that seemed to run in the family just and thick and surely as the blood in their veins.

And yet, as the years turned into decades and decades into centuries, that noble streak had slipped through their fingers like sand, until, by the birth of young Ivor and Siger, there was almost none left at all.

Of course, that’s not to say that the boys ever went without. Indeed, they were quite the young men of means.

They attended the finest schools and most prestigious universities the country had to offer, and enjoyed an all expense paid tour of the world their peers could scarcely dream of in between.

In fact, it wasn’t until adulthood, after the passing of their father, that they came to realize just how severely their inheritance had suffered under the old man’s regrettably neglectful eye.

Splitting the comparatively meager sum equally between themselves, the only benefactors of their father’s will, the two brothers (whose relationship could on be described as (at best) antagonistic) parted ways at the metaphorical fork in the road.

Where Siger took his small fortune and nurtured it, putting the old Holmes cunning to work for Her Majesty’s government, Ivor (who had never been quite as intellectually gifted as his younger brother) decided instead, to utilize his natural talent for manipulation and ruthless one-upmanship (they had served him so well in the past after all) and attempt to make it big in the world of business; unfortunately, with little success.

Whilst Siger slowly but surely clawed back the glory of his youth, married and had children – Ivor wallowed in his own misery and became consume by bitterness, regularly drinking himself into an often violent stupor.

But the road of life isn’t a straight and predictable thing. No, it’s made of twists and turns of fate, ups and downs that leave all concerned with their heads spinning as to where they were and how they’d got there.

It seems that even the great Holmes family wasn’t an exception to this rule, as just short of 20 years after the brother’s great parting of the ways, Ivor’s luck took a dramatic change for the better whilst Siger’s took a tragic turn for the worse.

Holmes the Younger and his wife, returning from a weekend spent together in Brighton, were involved in a rather horrible motorcar accident, during which they, most unfortunately, perished, leaving behind their two sons, Mycroft and young Sherlock. More importantly though (at least in Ivor’s eyes) they also left a will, stating that until the youngest lad, nine year old Sherlock – reached the age of 18, a generous allowance would be provided to whomever took on the responsibility of primary caregiver.

Naturally, as their last living relative, this role fell to Ivor, who, with his lawyer and accountant in tow, promptly moved into his late brother’s (much cushier) Surrey home, and shouldered this new responsibility with great gusto – and an open cheque-book, of course.


	2. Chapter 2

**THREE MONTHS LATER…**

 

Yet another crack of Ivor’s belt striking flesh echoed from behind the study door; an agonizing beat to the brute’s personal melody of drunken snarls and bellows.

Sherlock crouched, hidden in the corner of the room he and Mycroft had shared since their parent’s funeral. His forehead was pressed against the tops of his knobbly knees, which he’d drawn up to his chest, and his hands were clapped tight over his ears. He didn’t know why he was staying like that. It made no difference. He still heard everything, and merely covering his face was not enough to hide his sobbing from even the stupidest of observers.

He didn’t even want to cry. He tried his best to stop, but he just couldn’t. Every breath he took shuddered or was accompanied by yet another humiliatingly squeaky hiccup – and, of course, the constant stream of tears that would not, could not be stopped.

He hated it! Crying was so stupid. It was nothing more than a childish, nay, infantile form of expression, one of which a boy of his age, intelligence and maturity, had absolutely no business indulging in. And yet indulge he did, in spite of it all, because, god help him, he just couldn’t stop no matter how many times he told himself that it was useless, that it was wasting time, that it was just proving Ivor right, he is a stupid little baby.

He hiccupped again.

But what else was there that he could do?

He couldn’t help Mycroft after all. He knew that for sure. All of his prior attempts had failed. In fact, they’d only made matters worse.

And it was his fault to begin with for pity’s sake.

Not that he could have predicted that Ivor would react the way he did. There was no precedence for him to draw on that would have suggested he’d receive such a severe response to his relatively minor act of rebellion. Sure, Sherlock had known he’d get mad, but he didn’t think, would have never dreamed that things would go so far as they had, that Ivor would actually attack them the way he did.

Sniffling, Sherlock pressed his hands even firmer against his ears in an attempt to drown out Ivor’s snarls and Mycroft’s cries of pain.

But surely there must have been something, some sign that Sherlock, in a rare moment of stupidity, had missed. There was always something. And it was probably so obvious, he just couldn’t focus – he couldn’t even think.

He wrapped his fingers around the tops of his reddening ears, squeezing his hands into tight fists. He let the discomfort of that ground him. Squeezing his eyes firmly shut, he desperately tried to think back and retrace his steps.

Ivor had gone to London that morning, really early too. Probably to take another shot at pitching his latest plan for _The Next Big Thing_.

He didn’t say anything to Sherlock or Mycroft about it. Of course. He mostly ignored them when he wasn’t screaming at them.

Clearly he hadn’t been successful. If any investors had taken a bite at his pitch, he definitely wouldn’t have been in such a foul mood.

But he didn’t say anything to them. He’d not spoken to them since the day before last – so there couldn’t have been some task he’d asked of them that they’d failed to complete to set him off. It seemed, so far as Sherlock could see, that the sole cause of his agitation had been his latest business failure.

So far, so obvious.

What else?

He and Mycroft had studied in the park that day, rather than at home. Again, this was not an unusual occurrence. In fact, they often did that, ever since Ivor had pulled them both out of their schools to teach them himself at home (an unfortunate result of Sherlock’s history teacher catching sight of some finger-shaped bruises on the back of his neck (school bullies had played the role of scapegoat that time, but Ivor considered it all too close a call to the security of his carer’s allowance))

Inevitably, he’d lost interest halfway through the first lesson, promptly leaving them to teach themselves from then on. And though it was sometimes inconvenient, it did allow them the small mercy of an abundance of potential classrooms.

Unfortunately, for the previous few days, the weather had been absolutely horrendous. Non-stop rain and thunder all week long. As such (to Sherlock’s great displeasure) they’d been forced to remain indoors.

However, that morning, the dark clouds finally dispersed and the sun shown once more. Seeing an opportunity to finally escape the confines of their (though it was more Ivor’s these days) home, they’d headed up to the park to enjoy as much of it as possible.

They had completed their compulsory studies in no time, and so, enthusiastically moved on to their individual electives. For an hour or so, Mycroft drafted his no doubt meticulous essay for Sociology whilst Sherlock (almost) eagerly ran through his worksheets for Chemistry.

By the time they were halfway through their tailored languages lesson (read: bickering with each other in whatever language took their fancy (French had been the language of choice that day)) the clouds had returned and begun to rumble ominously once more.

Before long the wind was whipping at their books and the odd flash of lightening was lighting up the sky, leading to Mycroft’s making the executive decision (once again, to Sherlock’s displeasure) to return home whilst they still could do so dry.

Sherlock frowned, roughly rubbing away the tears that had dribbled down his cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt.

He couldn’t see how any of that would anger Ivor in the slightest. They’d been out of the house (Ivor liked them best when they were out), they’d completed their studies and they’d returned home clean and dry. It couldn’t have been any of that.

Yes, Ivor did seem to harbor some intense dislike for their penchant for studying (rather ironic, Sherlock thought, considering whose idea the home-schooling had been), But it had never inspired a real thrashing out of him before. He screamed himself hoarse at them, certainly, there had been the occasional push and shove and the odd whack around the head in the past, but never anything as… severe as all this.

Sherlock simply couldn’t understand why this incident was any different from all those before it. He ran through the day again and then again once more – but he just couldn’t find any factor that made the ground work of this outburst any different from that of those past.

Yet there must have been something, because this hadn’t played out like anything they’d weathered before. They’d come home to him angry and drunk in the past – but he’d never reacted like this before.

Of course, in hindsight, Sherlock would admit that baiting him hadn’t been, by any stretch, his brightest idea.

But at the time, he hadn’t really cared all that much. He hadn’t thought there was any reason _for_ him to care.

At the time he’d been angry, actually, he’d been furious. He was so sick and tired of Ivor constantly picking on them, spitting and snarling for absolutely no reason, and just expecting them to lie down and take it.

He was through with the paranoid bastard whacking him and Mycroft around the head and calling them little swots whenever he caught the studying subjects (thanks to _his_ marvelous home-schooling idea) that he couldn’t understand (he’d thrown a right fit when he’d come across Mycroft’s Commerce coursework).

He was sick to playing punching bag to Ivor’s easily bruised ego and his outburst over catching them speaking French as they walked through the door had been the straw that broke Shelock’s proverbial camel’s back.

French, was one of the many subjects that Sherlock and Mycroft excelled at and Ivor could grasp if his life depended on it.

His paranoid conviction that they were bad-mouthing him whenever they spoke any language other than English didn’t help matters in the slightest (although, to be fair, it was a warranted concern. They often were bad-mouthing him).

This paranoia often, most unfortunately, resulted in Ivor’s throwing a temper tantrum that would put even the most spoilt of toddlers to shame, each and every time he caught his nephews so much as lilting their words in a _foreign_ fashion.

Ordinarily, Sherlock found these displays comical.

Of course, there would be a quick slap to weather or a shove here and there – but ordinarily, baiting of this manner would result in fireworks rather that explosions akin to an atomic bomb being dropped.

So when Ivor had stalked up to them in a manner Sherlock assumed was supposed to be intimidating (he thought it actually looked more like a large pig struggling to walk on its hind legs) and snarled for them to ‘Speak bloody English’ and go to their room, he hadn’t thought all that much of muttering under his breath as he passed, “ _T_ u es tellement con que les gens ont pitié de toi.”

It had seemed like a sound plan in his young, angry eyes. Ivor had upset him, so he’d just upset Ivor right back. It was fair. It was what he deserved. It almost resembled some feral breed of justice, if anything can resemble such an appallingly unrealistic ideal that is.

He’d expected a sharp smack up the back of his head, or maybe to be pushed to the ground or into a wall.

What he hadn’t expected was to be spun around so hard the sleeve of his shirt tore, before being swiftly and sharply struck across the face by the back of his uncle’s hand. He hadn’t expected to taste blood.

Ivor raised his hand for another slap when Sherlock felt himself being pulled back away. Before he knew it, he was hiding behind Mycroft, his sore cheek pressed against the cool fabric of his brother’s shirt. He delicately dabbed his lip and found it had indeed split.

He was sharply brought back to the reality of the situation when Mycroft jerked and the crack of another slap bounced off the walls.

“I said step aside boy!” Ivor roared, seizing a fistful of Mycroft’s shirt as he attempted to move him out of the way by force. But Mycroft had already grabbed a firm hold of Sherlock and was able to keep himself between them both.

Huffing and puffing in a manner that would have been incredibly comical if the situation hadn’t already been so terrifyingly out of control, Ivor hissed, “Don’t coddle the boy! That’s the why he is the way he is! A freak!”

Sherlock pressed his face back against Mycroft shirt.

“He’s not a freak!”

Ivor slapped Mycroft again.

Leaning forward so they were practically nose to nose, Ivor sneered once more, “Step aside. The brat needs to learn the consequences of disrespect, and god help me, I **will** be the one to teach him!”

Once again, Sherlock was surprised by reactions unexpected. This time, it was Mycroft’s, for you see, rather than simply refusing to move (like Sherlock had thought he would) or stepping aside (like he thought he probably should), Mycroft… laughed.

Ivor looked as shocked as Sherlock felt.

“Why on earth, would he respect _you_?” Mycroft chuckled incredulously, “My brother’s rather logical you see, so you can understand why I’m so confused, after all, you’ve done nothing to earn either of our respect, and you’ve done pretty much everything to lose it you sad, pathetic, failure of a man.”

For the longest moment, there was complete silence. The calm before the storm.

But quickly, inevitably, the calm passed and all hell broke loose.

With an enraged howl, Ivor whacked Mycroft again, but this time he did so hard enough to send him stumbling into the wall.

Having forgotten Sherlock entirely, Ivor lunged forward, grabbing his eldest nephew by the scruff of the neck and dragging him down the hall, towards the study.

Sherlock raced after them, fighting desperately to break his uncle’s grasp, to stop him unbuckling his belt, he even tried to lock the study door in hopes that it would distract him long enough for Mycroft to escape.

But it was all to no avail.

In the end, he wasn’t even able to provide moral support, because by the time they finally reached the study, Ivor grabbed a hold of Sherlock again, bellowed orders for him to go to his room and “Bloody stay there!” before all but throwing him out into the hall and slamming the door shut.

For a long moment, Sherlock just stay there on the floor where he’d fallen, staring at the door in shock.

That had never happened. Never. He’d never… _attacked_ them before; his usual Modus Operandi was more akin to school-yard bullying than full-out assault!

Mycroft howled from behind the door as the first crack of the belt echoed from behind it. He could hear the sharp snap of the belt buckle and prong as they clicked together on contact with his brother’s back.

Sherlock suddenly realized he was shaking.

Mycroft screamed again as Ivor’s belt made and even louder crack than before.

With a slight hiccup, Sherlock scrambled to his feet and flew down the hall to his and Mycroft’s room. He didn’t want to hear it! He didn’t want to know! He didn’t want to just sit there and listen when he couldn’t do anything to help, to make it stop, even though it was all his fault!

The next hiccup somehow morphed into a loud, helpless sob.

He didn’t know what to do.

 

 _Note: "T_ u es tellement con que les gens ont pitié de toi _," is_ ** _supposed_** _to mean 'You're so stupid, people pity you' - at least that's what I've been told by a lovely French anon :)_

 


	3. Chapter 3

It was a testament to how affected by the situation Sherlock was, that he hadn’t notice the noise emanating from the study had ceased until his room’s door swung open with a bang.

Mycroft looked ready to collapse. In fact, Sherlock had little doubt he would have done so already, had it not been for the (no doubt painfully) tight grip Ivor had on his arm.

“And what do you have to say for yourself?” the brute hissed, glaring down at his nephew, giving him a rough shake when there was no immediate answer.

Mycroft mumbled something. Sherlock couldn’t hear him. Was he concussed?

“Speak clearly,” Ivor hissed, squeezing Mycroft’s arm even tighter, “And look at me when I’m talking to you.”

“Leave him alone,” Sherlock cried.

Ivor scowled.

“You just sit down and shut up!” he yelled, before shaking Mycroft again and shouting into his ear, “What do you have to say to me boy?”

After what looked like quite a struggle, Mycroft finally lifted his head and met Ivor’s eye. Sherlock had never seen his brother look so openly hostile.

Glaring hatefully up at their aggressor, eyes red rimmed and through gritted teeth, he hissed, “I’m sorry Uncle Ivor.”

Unsurprisingly, Ivor wasn’t quite satisfied with his apology. Snarling, he lashed out once more, leaving Mycroft doubled over and gasping for air, having had the wind well and truly knocked out of him.

Leaning so his mouth was once again level with Mycroft’s ear, he whispered, dangerously calm, “Try again.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft gasped without a trace of any of his previous malice, too busy fighting to force air back into his lungs to manage such a feat.

“Much better,” Ivor replied, patting his head and smiling at the flinch that elicited, before finally releasing his hold on Mycroft’s arm.

He stepped back and watched his nephew drop to his knees, still doubled over and gasping for air, looking a great deal more satisfied than Sherlock had seen him in a long, long time. It made him nervous. If he was satisfied by these results, he was more likely to do this again. This was going to happen again.

He flinched when those cold grey eyes, which were nothing like his father’s, fixed themselves on him.

“I hope your proud of yourself Sherlock,” he sneered, smirking as Sherlock’s breath hitched, “This all happened because of you and your cheek.”

With one final glance down at Mycroft, panting at his feet, he spun on his heel and marched back out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

Sniffling, Sherlock crawled over to where his brother was haltingly struggling to his hands and knees.

“Mycroft?”

“I’m fine,” Mycroft grunted.

“Liar,” Sherlock retorted, rubbing roughly at his face before pulling Mycroft’s right arm around his bony shoulders.

“What are you doing?!” Mycroft wheezed as he reached up and grabbed a hold of the edge of their set of draws, not quite able to contain the pained hiss the effort drew out.

“Helping you, obviously,” Sherlock answered, “Don’t be stupid Mycroft.”

“Yes. My apologies,” Mycroft softly chuckled, “Are you ready?”

“On three?”

“Two may be wiser.”

Nodding decisively, Sherlock tightened his grip on his brother’s wrist and prepared to heave.

“On two then. One… Two.”

Leaning on his little brother far more heavily than he would have like, both Mycroft and Sherlock made their way to the nearest bed. Sherlock helped Mycroft take off his shirt, which he knew, from personal experience (although of a slightly lesser degree of course) was rubbing uncomfortably against the sensitive flesh that had been licked by the belt, before aiding him down onto his side.

“Are you alright?” Mycroft asked, “He hit you too.”

“Not as much as you,” Sherlock pointed out guiltily, “You shouldn’t have stepped in.”

“Of course I should have,” Mycroft replied, “You’re my little brother. I’ll always protect you.”

“I should have protected you,” Sherlock sighed.

“I fear that may have been more than a little counterproductive,” Mycroft pointed out with a teasing smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Still…”

“It’s not your fault Sherlock,” Mycroft firmly insisted, “None of this is. Understand?”

Sherlock was by no means convinced, but he nodded anyway.

Sighing, Mycroft shook his head before ordering him to, “Let me see you lip.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock stepped forward for inspection.

Biting back a pained hiss as he sat up, Mycroft gently tilted Sherlock’s head up to a better angle, before snarling, “Bastard.”

Sherlock blinked in surprise. Mycroft never swore.

Mycroft seemed to remember this himself, as he quite visibly forced himself to calm down before stiffly announcing, “it’s not as bad as it could have been, which, of course, is good. It will heal on its own. No need for stitches. Lucky for Uncle Ivor.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Your cheek’s quite red too. You might get a bit of a bruise. How does it feel?”

“How do you think?” Sherlock scoffed, “Hurts.”

Dropping his hand, Mycroft scowled down at the bed sheets. Sherlock knew it wasn’t directed at him, but after everything that had happened, it was making him feel uneasy nonetheless.

Mycroft glanced up at him, and seemed to spot his discomfort, even though Sherlock knew he’d hidden it well. Mycroft always could see what nobody else could… or would.

Again, he forced himself to calm down. Sherlock followed his lead.

“Where is he now?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock shrugged.

“I don’t know. I heard the front door slam. He’s probably gone to find some more whiskey.”

“That does seem to be the liquor of the day doesn’t it?” Mycroft sighed, “He reeked of it.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock giggled, pulling a face.

Mycroft smiled.

“I hope he gets alcohol poisoning and dies,” Sherlock chirped.

Laughing lightly, Mycroft replied, “You shouldn’t say things like that Brother-Mine.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked, perplexed.

“I really couldn’t say for sure,” Mycroft chuckled, “However I’m afraid that such statements may sound somewhat obscene to the uninformed bystander… perhaps, even to the informed one as well.”

“But _you_ agree,” Sherlock pointed out.

Smiling tiredly, Mycroft chuckled, “I think you’ll find that I often do.”

Sherlock scoffed but said no more.

Sighing, Mycroft reached over and gently rubbed away some of the remaining wetness off of Sherlock’s unharmed cheek.

“You were crying.”

“Was not.”

“Liar,” Mycroft chuckled, tapping the tip of Sherlock’s nose with his now-damp finger.

Shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot, Sherlock grumbled, “A little bit.”

“Were you scared?” Mycroft asked gently.

Sherlock glared up at him.

“It’s okay if you were.”

“I wasn’t.”

Mycroft patted the spot on the mattress beside him, and after a moment of rebellious inaction (just to prove that he was not going to be ordered about) Sherlock scrambled up and snuggled against his brother’s chest.

“I was a little,” Mycroft murmured, hesitating a moment (thrown by his ordinarily aloof little brother all but asking for a cuddle) before wrapping his arms around Sherlock, “You’re braver than me.”

Sherlock sniffed.

“No I’m not,” Sherlock tearfully murmured.

“You definitely are,” Mycroft insisted, hugging him tighter.

Sherlock shook his head fiercely, tearfully sniffling, “I’m not brave. I was stupid and I made a mistake, I miscalculated and I didn’t know and it’s my fault and you got hurt and it’s all because of me-“

“Breathe Brother-Mine,” Mycroft whispered, gently rubbing circles over Sherlock back like their Mother always had after nightmares, “It’s not your fault.”

“It is,” Sherlock insisted. “Should have known. Should have seen- there must have been signs, why didn’t I- ?”

“Sherlock, Brother, it’s not your fault.”

“Yes it is!” Sherlock cried.

“No,” Mycroft said firmly, pulling back a little, tilting Sherlock’s head up so he could meet his eye. “No Sherlock, it’s not your fault. And it’s important that you understand that.”

Sherlock sniffed.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you are not to blame for the behavior of that… utter buffoon,” Mycroft replied.

Sherlock gaped. Mycroft calling people names, even ones as mild as buffoon, was nothing if not a novelty. He preferred to imply stupidity rather than call it out like Sherlock. His doing it twice in the one day was unheard of.

“It’s not your fault Sherlock. It’s his,” Mycroft continued, “To take responsibility for him would just lighten whatever theoretical burden he has, and that simply won’t do. He blames other people for everything that happens to him and everything that he does. If he won’t hold himself accountable for his actions, then we must.”

“What does it matter?” Sherlock sighed, “He doesn’t care what we think.”

“I care what you think,” Mycroft replied, a small smile tugging at his lips, “I like to delude myself with the fantasy that the feeling’s mutual. Please don’t burst my bubble.”

Sherlock giggled.

“If we don’t hold him accountable, even if it’s just in our own minds, one day we’ll find ourselves thinking that it must, therefore, be our fault, thus, we deserve to be treated like that – we don’t.”

With a sigh, Sherlock nodded.

“Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Alright, yes, I get it,” Sherlock snapped (although somewhat halfheartedly).

Mycroft grinned.

“Good so if I asked whose fault this incident was, you’d say?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes before dutifully answering, “Uncle Ivor’s.”

“Very good,” Mycroft chuckled, “And if I asked you whose fault it _wasn’t_?”

Sherlock bit his lip, before slowly replying, “…Ours.”

“That’s right,” Mycroft said, “Ivor’s acting like a… a-?”

“Yobo?”

“It will do. Ivor’s acting like a yobo was _his_ choice, thus the results are his responsibility. They weren’t my fault. And they **_certainly_** weren’t yours.”

“Okay,” murmured Sherlock, shuffling back so he sat in front of his brother rather than on top of his lap.

Sighing, Mycroft ran a hand through his hair.

“Having said that though, I fear it would be safest for us to be on our best behavior for now.”

“How long is 'for now'?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft smiled apologetically.

“Indefinitely I’m afraid.”

“That isn’t possible! Not with him! This isn’t fair!” Sherlock cried, drawing his knees back to his chest and hugging them tight.

“I know,” Mycroft sighed.

“This is Mummy and Pater’s house anyway. He’s just a guest here!”

“Not in the eyes of the law I’m afraid,” Mycroft apologetically replied, “According to everyone who matters, this **is** his house until I turn 18.”

“He’s still a guest!” Sherlock snapped, “And an unwelcome one at that. He can’t order us about like this.”

“Legally he can. Guest or not – he’s our guardian. He can do anything he wants so long as it remains within the law or goes unnoticed.”

“Why?!” Sherlock cried, “He’s horrible and mean and we didn’t do anything to deserve this anyway! Why are we being punished just because Mummy and Pater di- It’s not fair!”

Mycroft sighed again.”

“I know it’s not Sherlock. But what else can we do but wait it out?”

Biting his lip, Sherlock glanced about the room, searching for some scrap of inspiration from which he could form a plan.

“I… we…”

“Yes?”

Sherlock’s eyes fell upon his old school sports kit.

“Run,” he murmured, before spinning around to face Mycroft, eyes wide with excitement, “We could run Mycroft. Runaway from here.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft warned.

But Sherlock was having none of it.

“We could leave tonight… now even. He probably won’t be back until midnight. We could hide, go to… London. We know London, we’ll go there – everyone goes there when they’re running away.”

Mycroft scoffed.

“We’ll look after ourselves,” Sherlock insisted, “We’d be shot of him.”

“We’d be on our own.”

“We **are** on our own.”

“We’d be homeless.”

“Our home has been invaded by an idiot.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft snapped, “It would be dangerous. We’d have no money, no food, nowhere to go.”

“Is that all you’ve got?” Sherlock scoffed, before announcing, “We’ll go to London. We’ll make money, we’ll buy food with the money and we’ll take care of ourselves. We already are.”

“I think you’ll find that knife wielding drug dealers are a little more difficult to deal with than belt-toting uncles Sherlock.”

Losing his patience, Sherlock cried, “I know that! But thing are getting worse **here** Mycroft! At least out there people aren’t out to get _us_. At least out there we would be living in the same house as the enemy.”

Mycroft ducked his head.

Sherlock counted that as a point scored.

“He’ll do it again Mycroft,” Sherlock insisted, “He- I saw- Mycroft he’ll do it again, and this is just the beginning. Things will get worse.”

“I know,” Mycroft uttered as he ran his hand through his hair again, “I know Sherlock. I see it too. I’m not denying it.”

“And you said he could do whatever he wants, so long as nobody notices,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft nodded.

“We don’t go to school anymore. Nobody comes here. We don’t go to anybody else’s house, not even Adrianna’s. Nobody will notice My… not until…”

“I know Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, “He knows too.”

Sherlock frowned.

“He knows we won’t call Social Services,” Mycroft explained, “That would only go badly for us.”

“How badly?” Sherlock asked.

“Really badly Brother-Mine,” Mycroft murmured, “Either they’d take us away and put us in foster homes, likely numerous homes considering our… unique personalities. And sooner or later, they’ll split us up.”

“I don’t want to be split up!” Sherlock cried, eyes wide.

“Nor do I,” Mycroft solemnly replied before continuing, “And of course, there’s the flip side of that coin.”

“They don’t believe us.”

“And we’re left here, with a very angry Uncle Ivor and no possibility of future aid,” Mycroft finished, “Not an ideal situation, to say the least.”

“You see,” cried Sherlock, “We’re in danger here as well!”

Mycroft groaned.

“Yes Sherlock. I’ve not denied it.”

“So why don’t we just leave!” Sherlock moaned, “He wouldn’t miss us. We wouldn’t miss him. We could get jobs and we can take care of each other and we wouldn’t have to worry about him every again.”

Rubbing tiredly at his face, Mycroft replied, “You have a _very_ romanticized view of that particular course of action Brother-Mine.”

“Why shouldn’t we then?” Sherlock snapped, “Give me reason. Gives me data Mycroft!”

“Okay then. I’ll give you _data_. We shouldn’t because if we did we would have to be incredibly careful so as to not be caught by Social Services, for reasons previously stated. Also, as previously stated: it would be cold, and scary, we’d be hungry, we’d have **no** money, finding a job isn’t half as easy as you seem to think and you would have to listen to me _whenever_ I told you to do something.”

“What would you be telling me to do?” Sherlock asked, frowning.

“I don’t know,” Mycroft murmured, “I might tell you to go and wait for me somewhere, or to hide, or to stop doing something because we were getting noticed by a Community Support Officer, stuff like that. People don’t look twice at a teenager sleeping rough, but they’ll want to protect a child.”

“Just let them talk to me. Then they weren’t,” Sherlock giggled.

Mycroft frowned.

“That’s not funny Sherlock, and I’m not joking. Unless you promise to listen to everything I tell you, do whatever I say as soon as I say to do it, then we cannot even think about that as an option.”

Dropping his gaze down to the bed sheets, Sherlock asked, “And if I did promise?”

“Pardon?”

Glancing up, Sherlock repeated, “What if I did promise to listen to you? Can we go then?”

“I- you’re serious?” Mycroft asked, astounded, “You’d actually listen to me?”

“Let’s be clear,” Sherlock announced, “Only about proper stuff. If you tell me to do stupid things, like jumping on the spot or trying to touch my nose with my tongue-:

“Why on earth would I want you to do something so vulgar?”

“Examples,” Sherlock replied dismissively, “Silly things, I won’t do. You need to stick to proper things. Promise?”

With a surprised blink, Mycroft replied, “Of course I promise. You don’t need my help to do sill things anyway.”

“Hey!”

“But what about everything else?” Mycroft asked, “It’ll be cold and wet, food would be an issue and, of course, it would be quite dangerous. I would be scary Sherlock.”

“It’s dangerous and scary here Mycroft,” Sherlock solemnly replied.

Mycroft sighed.

“It is, isn’t it?”

“What other option do we have Mycroft,” Sherlock asked, “If we go to Social Services, they’ll split us up. If we stay here… we’re going to get really hurt. Nobody else will take us.”

Mycroft ducked his head again, something Sherlock had learnt a long time ago, meant his brother didn’t want him to see the expressions he was unable to hide, on his face.

“All we have is each other anyway,” Sherlock sighed, “Why not make it official?”

“It shouldn’t be like this,” Mycroft murmured, shaking his head, “It should have never have come to this.”

Sherlock ducked his head as well, forever mimicking his big brother.

“I miss them too My,” he murmured, “People think I don’t. But I do.”

Smiling sadly, Mycroft pulled his little brother closer and hugged him again, murmuring into his shoulder, “I know you do.”

 

+++

 

"Alright, how does this sound? Dear Uncle Ivor-"

"Far too polite."

"Sherlock, be serious."

"I was."

"Moving swiftly on. Dear Uncle Ivor. It may have come to your attention, although it may well have escaped it, that neither Sherlock nor myself are in the house. Indeed if you have gone so far as to check the room you have so kindly (as you are constantly reminding us) left at our disposal (after ransacking it for valuables much like you did with the rest of the house, of course), you would find that they seem considerably more empty than they were a few hours ago.

Allow me to explain. This, dear Uncle-"

Sherlock giggled.

"-is because Sherlock and I have decided that it would be, in all likelihood, mutually beneficial for both yourself and us, if we were to find alternative accommodation. I imagine you must be somewhat concerned for a well-being. But never fear, dearest uncle, we shall soldier on and 'deal with it' as you have so often advised us."

Sherlock giggled again.

"Of course, our absence may cause us all a few problems if the wrong people were to learn of it, for example, the considerable allowance you receive monthly for caring for us would naturally be withdrawn and of course when questioned why we felt we could no longer live with you, our dearest, nay,  _only_  uncle, we would have to explain to them the incidents of the past (for reference to these incidents, please refer to photographs a and b (these are merely a sample I assure you) you should find them in the envelope stapled to this letter).

"I believe it can be safely said that it would be in all of our best interest if said relevant authorities were to remain ignorant to our, alternative arrangements. In order to do this Sherlock and I will both be continuing our studies until graduation, so there would be no need for you to interfere with that arrangement and risk arousing the interest of those pesky authorities (once again, please turn you attention to photographs A and B (we really do have quite a lot more)). In a few years time I will be visiting you with the custody papers for my younger brother. You will sign them and not make the slightest fuss. This would of course be in your best interest because, well, A and B. I believe that covers everything. I'm reliably informed that it is custom to wish the addressee a long life and success for all future endeavors."

"We're not going to are we?"

"As such – Sherlock and I wish you that you have a very, very long life ahead of you-"

"Mycroft!"

" _But,_  most unfortunately, neither of us could, in good conscience, write that we wish you success or good fortune. Quite the opposite in fact. It is our joint and sincere desire to see you an old, bitter and lonely man years from now, who has, throughout his very,  _very_  long life, failed in every one of his endeavors and, having spat in the face of all those around him, found himself utterly alone in the world and reliant on us, his family, to help him once rock bottom is finally hit. That, dearest uncle, is an inevitability and I suggest you pray to whichever deity you conform to, that we are more merciful to you than you ever were to us.

****

**_Very_**  sincerely

 

The Brothers Holmes."

Mycroft glanced up from the page.

"What do you think?'

Sherlock remained silent for a short while, before announcing, "I liked the ending."

"Of course you did," laughed Mycroft, shaking his head, "Nonetheless, I believe that we covered everything and he's stupid and proud enough to not show this to anybody, so I doubt that we run much of a risk of being charged with blackmail any time soon. Which means all that's left to do is leave and ensure we're never brought back."

"Simple," Sherlock replied, swinging his back pack over his shoulder and picking up his violin case before asking with a cheeky grin on his face, "How mad do you think he's going to be after he's read that?"

Picking up their bag of belongings and hooking father's old umbrella over his arm, Mycroft airily replied, "Oh I believe that our lives may be in danger if we come anywhere near the house once he has."

"Well then," grinned Sherlock, stabbing his jack-knife right through the centre of their letter, fixing it to the mantelpiece, "Perhaps it's best for us to leave."

"I'd say that's without a doubt the wisest course of action," chuckled Mycroft, "After you."

 


	4. Chapter 4

They visited Adrianna on the way to the train station (although she was calling herself Anthea that particular evening). There they retrieved all of the Knick-Knacks they'd managed to smuggle out of the house (prior to Ivor's looting it for valuables upon arrival) and made all the final arrangements they necessary before they left.

"Keep it charged."

"Yes Ma'am."

"I mean it. 999 is a free call and you might need it."

"I know Anthea."

"Then keep it charged."

"I know! I said I would."

"Just making sure. Now as for-"

"Yes are you sure it's okay?"

"Really it's fine," Anthea insisted, "I usually drop into London once a week anyway, for work experience – hanging around Charring Cross for you guys won't be too much of a bother. Trust me."

"Okay," chuckled Mycroft, "We really appreciate it.  _Don't we Sherlock_?"

"Oh yes," Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes, "Coursework deliveries once a week, every week. Thank you ever so much."

"You're welcome dear," Anthea retorted, before turning back to a rather long-suffering Mycroft. "Will you be alright?"

"That's the plan," Mycroft replied, smiling reassuringly, "We'll work it out. Don't worry."

"I always worry about you two. It's my job."

"Well I appreciate the concern," Mycroft chuckled, leaning forward and kissing her on the cheek.

"You'll take care of yourself?"

"Of course. And you?"

"Naturally."

Mycroft chuckled, smiling sadly, "I'm afraid we need to get going. Train leaves in an hour and we still need to get to the station."

"Ok," Anthea replied, pulling him in for a brief hug.

"Be careful," she whispered.

"We will."

"And make sure you take care of yourself."

"I already said-"

"No. I meant make sure you take care of  _yourself_  as well as Sherlock."

"… I'll try."

With one last, firm squeeze, she stepped back.

"Alright, you need to get going."

"Yes."

"Then you best get going," she replied, handing him his bag.

"Okay. We'll meet you on Saturday yes? Charring Cross, 12 o'clock?"

"Absolutely," she said, pocketing the envelope Mycroft had given her for safe keeping, "I'll see you then."

"Mycroft come on!" Sherlock hissed, tugging on his brother's sleeve as he was yet to move, "The train, remember?"

"Yes, sorry," Mycroft murmured, "See you Saturday Anthea."

"And you," she replied.

She sat down on the brick wall the stood out the front of her house and watched them leave.

She was still there an hour later when the lights of their home flickered on and their blasted Uncle started bellowing inside an empty house.

He stormed out, got in his car and roared down the street not 5 minutes later.

Taking out her mobile she quickly messaged Mycroft.

 _Ivor on the move._

 _Heading towards train station._

 _In car._

 _ETA 30 minutes (assuming he doesn't get lost)_

 _\- A_

She didn't have to wait long for the reply.

 _Safe._

 _Train was early._

 _Approaching Walton-On-Thames now_

 _Thanks for keeping watch_

 _\- Mycroft_

Anthea heaved a sigh of relief.

 _No problem._

 _Save your credit and for god's sake be careful_

 _\- A_

Pocketing her mobile once more, she lingered a moment on top of the brick wall, staring solemnly at the house across the road.

Things should never have come to this.

* * *

On the very rare occasion that Mycroft was asked about his and Sherlock's time on the streets of London (for few would ever learn of it), he would describe the experience merely as an eye-opening one. And it had certainly been that. It had also been the single most terrifying week of either of their lives.

The first night hadn't been that bad. They'd caught a late train from Surrey to King's Cross station and set off from there, finding a nice quiet stairwell to spend the rest of the night in, too wired from their escape to sleep but unsure as to what else they could do. They should have seized the opportunity whilst it was there, that was lesson number one.

Five o'clock that morning, they were moved on by a trio of security guards who seemed to think that they were up to no good and refused to be reasoned with. Lesson number two – do not attempt to reason with people telling you to move on, the police are usually brought up at some point.

After being yelled at and threatened by the security guards, they decided to head towards the Thames and see if they could get away with a little busking. That had worked out rather well; Sherlock earned about ten pounds in change before they were once again moved on around midday. They set up again further down the river and were able to earn another ten by five o'clock. They had fish and chips for dinner and Mycroft had foolishly thought that maybe it wouldn't be quite as bad as he thought it would be after all.

Things had quickly gone downhill from there.

They weren't able to find a nice (or at least, relatively safe) place to spend the night that time. They tried the same staircase as before, but the guards had been waiting for them and promptly told them to piss off or they'd have them nicked for trespassing.

They'd spent the rest of the night looking for somewhere else - but everything was either too busy, patrolled by security guards, the police or both, or already taken by their fellow rough sleepers, and Mycroft wasn't yet feeling brave enough to mix with them.

By two o'clock, Sherlock's legs refused to go any further and Mycroft had to carry him. By three, Mycroft couldn't go on either. They spent the night huddled behind an alarmingly smelly skip out the back of a hair salon. Mycroft didn't get a wink of sleep and Sherlock only got about an hour or so before the staff turned up at six the next morning and told them to get on their way.

People weren't feeling quite as appreciative of Sherlock's skill with the violin that day, and they only ended up with about six pounds by the time night fell. They bought a bag of crisps for dinner, saved the rest and ended up spending the night amidst some bushes in a park in Paddington. Though it was somewhat prickly, it did serve as their best shelter so far... at least until it started raining around seven o'clock the next morning.

They spent the rest of the day soaked, freezing and hiding away in the entrance of the nearest tube station. Sherlock couldn't play; they didn't want to run the risk of getting thrown out. They had three pounds left for food. They bought a smaller bag of crisps for dinner and somehow managed to snatch a couple hours rest in a locked toilet before they had to leave again when a security guard called for maintenance to fix the broken door.

Not knowing what else to do, when they spotted the opportunity to jump onto a train they took it, getting off at Brixton station and hoping they'd have better luck south of the river.

The rain had stopped and they set out to once more to find somewhere to kip for a couple of hours (hanging about the station during the day was one thing – people just assumed they were waiting for friends arrive and nobody hung around long enough to notice how long they'd been there. Sleeping there however... it was simply out of the question).

They'd not made it a block away from the station when, for the first time, they were confronted with the danger of the city rather than the mere unpleasantness of it.

It was approaching half past two by that point, most of the pubs were closed and a majority of the clubs were beginning to wind down as well. As such, quite a number of alcohol and adrenaline fuelled young men and women were prowling the streets in packs, as people are wont to do.

Mycroft and Sherlock were wandering off the high street when they came across a group of teenagers, not much older than Mycroft himself, stomping in the face of some poor drunkard for his wallet, the remainder of his wine, and (Mycroft assumed) simply for fun.

Fortunately a police patrol car caught sight of the attack as well and promptly skidded to a halt, scaring the gang off and calling in medical assistance for the victim. Sherlock and Mycroft were able to slip away unnoticed and apart from having witnessed it all, were no worse for wear really.

That said, they still spent the night huddled quietly in the corner of the station (Sherlock tucked under Mycroft's coat so most people didn't spot him right away) and caught the first train they could back to Paddington. Neither of them slept that night and it took quite some time to work up the nerve to stray south of the river once more. To say the very least – it served as a grim reminder as to the seriousness of their new situation.

And though things didn't get worse from there, not for a while at least, they didn't get all that much better either.

By the end of the week, Mycroft was beginning to think that they, no –  **he** , had made a horrible mistake, and it didn't take all that much longer for him to become convinced. Surely things couldn't have been so bad with Ivor that it was worth this. His back didn't even hurt all that much anymore.

It made little difference either way, whether it was for the better or just the fruit of one poor decision made by two scared and (momentarily) irrational boys, they were just going to have to make do.

As such, as the days rolled by and turned into weeks, a routine developed.

They never slept in the same place twice. In fact, they tried to not spend more than a week in the same borough. They learnt quickly that consistency was a dangerous thing when one was trying to keep under the radar. Being the boys who hang about the same tube stations is one thing, people just assumed that they had nothing better to do or when Sherlock was playing – that they wanted a bit of spending money. Being the boys who slept there too, was another matter entirely. Sooner or later, someone would notice and then Social Services would know just where to find them when they did.

So they kept on moving – traipsing around London in circuits, snatching hours of rest here and there when the opportunity presented itself (they quickly came to realize that a full night's sleep was no longer a realistic goal for them), finishing off all of their coursework as early in the week as possible, Sherlock playing when they needed food and Mycroft borrowing the career's section of every paper he could get his hands on, or failing that – simply begging anybody and everybody for work.

"I know I've got no qualifications sir, but I'm a really quick learner if you'll just give me a chance."

"I work really hard. No, really-"

"I'll do anything."

Nothing was working, and it was beyond frustrating.

Mycroft  ** _knew_**  he could do the work. But at the same time, he could understand why he wasn't being hired. The job market wasn't exactly booming, and he knew it was only logical that an adult would be hired over an inexperienced (at least not on paper - he'd never had a job before, having spent most of the year away at school and being, he realized now, too lazy to squander his holidays by getting one) sixteen year old boy who seemed to be getting scruffier by the day (He could tell many of them thought he was lying about his education, which pretty much ruled him out immediately no matter how clever he tried to prove himself (which usually just got people's backs up even more anyway)).

He knew all this, but it didn't make it any easier to swallow.

He'd tried calling up places, so to counter the whole scruffiness issue, get a foot in the door and all that. But he had to give that up because the costs were running into their postage purse for sending off school work, which, of course, took priority as failing to send in that would inevitably alert authorities to their absence.

He'd tried applying on the internet too - but had to give it up for the same reason.

That only left him with the option of handing in resumes by hand, which never really went anywhere - not when they saw him or noticed there were no contact details on said resume or Sherlock started talking. All of the fast food places he'd looked into were already fully-staffed – for the time being at least. There was just nothing he could do.

As such, that's how they ended up spending most of their days, that was their little routine - Sherlock playing his violin and supporting them both whilst Mycroft ran the fool's errand pouring over papers, praying for a position he just might be able to fill.

It was on one such morning that they first encountered one Gregory Lestrade, a meeting that, while not immediately and though neither he nor they knew it, would serve as quite the turning point in all their lives.


	5. Chapter 5

He’d forgotten. The first day off he’d had in god only knows how long and it didn’t so much as flitter across his mind as he set the alarm for 6 am the night before, nor when he woke to it, showered, dressed, walked the two blocks to the station or spent half an hour being jostled hither and thither amongst the masses crammed inside a glorified tin can.

In fact it wasn’t until he was smack dab in the middle of New Scotland Yard’s lobby, that he realised just how big a tit he was and by then... it was too late.

“Going a bit fuzzy in your old age eh Greggers?”

Greg groaned.

He’d be surprised if the entire CID didn’t know already. Bloody Gregson.

But he was not going to let one little slip up like that bring him down. In fact it was probably for the best that he’d gotten out of the flat really, otherwise he probably would have wasted the whole day sitting in front of the telly lamenting the distinct lack of a certain nagging voice ordering to make himself useful for once and fix the cupboards ‘like I’ve been asking you to for months!’.

You know you’re sunk when you even miss the nagging.

No it was definitely better this way – out and about, indulging in (relatively) fresh air, the company/association/presence of the rest of humanity and the lager of every pub between NSY and Fortune Green – which was how he found himself quite contently lazing in the sunshine in an outside table of _The Feather’s_ whilst he waited for the Arsenal match to start off inside.

He wasn’t expecting any pre-game entertainment.

“That is a complete over-reaction!” cried a frustrated little boy as he was dragged across the road by another, older kid. “It’s not like we’ve been banned from the station.”

The elder boy scoffed.

“We may as well have been,” he grumbled back, hitching up a packed-to-bursting duffel bag further up his shoulder as the younger boy continued to fight for his freedom.

“Don’t be such a drama queen.”

“Ah blatant hypocrisy. How trite,” the elder boy chuckled, finally releasing the kid before dropping his bag onto the ground and sitting down next to it, leaning against the outside wall of The Feather’s and only a couple of yards to the left of Greg’s table.

“Trite?!” the younger boy indignantly spluttered, “I’ve never been trite a day in my life!”

“Says you,” muttered the eldest, before continuing over his younger companion’s continued protests, “I notice you don’t object to the hypocrisy comment.”

Greg only just managed not to choke on his lager. Little boys made up of nothing but skin, bones and fly away black hair, were simply not capable of being physically intimidating – it was just another sad fact of life. But by god if that little boy didn’t try.

His companion, (older brother their shared mannerisms and general (though hostile) familiarity told him) appeared to hold a similar opinion, for his only response to the boys efforts was to roll his eyes and mutter, “Don’t strain anything for goodness sake.”

“I am not a hypocrite!” the younger brother cried, “And you are over-reacting... as usual.”

The elder boy rolled his eyes again.

“Forgive me,” he drawled, “But pointing out that people do not appreciate having Beethoven’s 5th played at them simply for not leaving a tip is not an over-reaction or erroneous observation or whatever else you like to call it.”

The younger boy pouted.

“It was only the first movement,” he whined.

“That’s the part I’ve got a problem with.”

“Spoilsport.”

With an unimpressed hum the elder boy continued, “The general public seem to be similarly disinclined to _The Imperial March_ being played at them during peak hour-“

“But it’s so fitting.”

“Nonetheless – nor do they appreciate _Ride of the Valkyries_ -“

“Bumblebee!”

“Whatever – and the police find the Jaws theme being played upon their arrival neither cute nor amusing.”

“I don’t want them to find it cute!”

“Well that’s a weight off my mind.”

“ ** _I_** find it highly amusing though-“

“Unbelievable,” the elder boy grumbled.

The younger, poked out his tongue, but said no more.

For a little while after that, five, maybe ten minutes, both the boys and Greg sat in silence.

The younger kid settled down next to his brother a couple of minutes in, plopping down on top of the bags with a soft thud.

The elder boy just sat quietly, leaning against the wall, eyes shut and enjoying the shade. In fact he was so quiet that Greg started to think that he’d actually gone and nodded off (kid looked tired enough for it – babysitting that brother of his must be quite exhausting).

His suspicions were confirmed not all that long after the thought popped into his head.

“My?” the younger boy sighed.

His brother groggily hummed in reply.

“I’m hungry.”

My (what sort of name is My?) sighed.

“How hungry?”

“Really, really,” the kid whined.

“It can’t wait until dinner?”

He bit his lip.

“I suppose it could.”

With a loud yawn, My finally opened his eyes and murmured.

“Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not silly!”

“Which is exactly why I disapprove of your acting as if you were,” My replied, a teasing smirk spreading into existence over his face.

He shooed his brother off of the bags, before unzipping them and digging through for a bit.

Greg leaned back in his seat to get a better view inside. He frowned. It was crammed with clothes, books and he thought he even saw the arm of a teddy bear poking out from amidst the mess. He was beginning to feel really stupid. What sort of copper was he that he saw two tired, hungry boys lugging around a chock-a-block duffel bag and didn’t find anything odd about it? Gregson was right – he was going bloody fuzzy.

“Right then,” My announced, interrupting Greg’s self-exacted dressing down, “It looks like we have seven pounds to spare before we run in to the postage perse. So – what would you like for lunch.”

The boy shrugged.

My quirked a brow.

“Very helpful,” he murmured, glancing about. “There’s a McDonald’s on Victoria Street.”

“I don’t want to walk to Victoria Street,” the kid whined.

“I thought I was the one who’s supposed to dislike legwork.”

“Myc-“

“Alright- we could get some crisps-“

“I’m sick of crisps!”

“You’re not making it very easy for me here Brother-Mine.”

Greg cleared his throat.

“Excuse me,” he called.

Both boys spun about to face him.

“You could join me for lunch if you like.”

Neither lad bothered hiding their distrust of both him and that offer.

Greg didn’t really blame them. He could have slapped himself actually. Could he have sounded anymore like a paedophile? Really?

Scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck, he continued, “Not like that I swear. It’s just I was going to meet my sister’s kids for lunch anyway – but I just got stood up. Got lunch for three on the way nonetheless and you boys seem like nice kids.”

It was a bit of a lie, but he figured that stating the truth outright, that is to say ‘You look a little more than half-starved and quite frankly I’m feeling sorry for the both of you,’ wasn’t going to be all well received.

My though, remained ill at ease.

“Well, we appreciate the offer, but-“

“No come on Brother-Mine,” the younger boy whined, “It’s just for lunch. What harm can it do?”

My’s eyebrows arched in a manner that suggested that a great number of potentially harmful outcomes of ‘ _just lunch_ ’ had come to mind.

But his brother shot him an almost pleading glance and that seemed to be enough to stop him from voicing any of them.

Instead he sighed, turned to Greg and asked, “It’s not any trouble is it?”

“I offered,” Greg pointed out with what he hoped was a reassuring grin.

My didn’t look all that reassured – but he did allow his little brother to tug him up and over to Greg’s table with minimal fuss.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling briefly whilst his young companion commandeered a stool from next door’s table.

Greg grinned.

“No problem,” he replied, “Glad for the company to be honest. Must look like a right lonely sod sat here by myself.”

My smirked.

“Greg Lestrade by the way,” he said, holding out a hand for the boys to shake.

Mycroft hesitated for a split second, before taking it and replying, “Mike Sigerson. This is my brother Lockie.”

“Who’s perfectly capable of introducing himself,” Lockie sniped, shaking Greg’s hand himself.

Mike rolled his eyes again.

“But not so capable of holding his tongue,” he retorted, “Or minding his manners.”

“At least he manages to keep his nose out of other people’s business.”

“He most certainly does not keep his nose out of other people’s business,” Mike retorted, “Although he should probably cease talking about himself in the third person.”

Lockie scowled.

Greg blinked.

“I’ll get drinks yeah?”

“Just water for us please-“

“Oh come on!”

“You sure?” Greg asked.

“Absolutely,” Mike replied, sparing his brother a firm glance, “Thank you Mr. Lestrade.”

“Right, water it is,” he announced, spinning on his heel and heading back indoors to fetch said drinks and covertly place an order of lunch for three.

“Why do you always have to spoil everything?!” he heard Lockie whine as he left.

“The last thing you need is extra sugar and caffeine.”

Greg couldn’t help but agree with the lad on that account.

 

 ++  
  
  


“Camping eh?” Greg chuckled as the boys attempted to lick their plates clean as covertly as they possibly could. “You don’t seem the type, no offence.”

Mike chuckled.

“None taken. And you’re quite right. We’re not.”

“Oh.”

The teenager shrugged.

“Our parents, well - Pater, thought it would be good for the two of us,” he explained, “A sort of team-building exercise. So we spent a couple of weeks out at Dartmoor. An old school-friend of father’s has quite a large property out there that he let us roam about in.”

Greg smirked.

“I see.”

Lockie grinned proudly.

“I didn’t push him off a cliff or anything.”

“How good of you,” Greg scoffed.

Mike sniffed.

“Heading home now though,” he replied, “Caught the wrong train by accident you see, and our next one doesn’t leave until this afternoon, so we’re just spending the day loitering about the city.”

Mike’s attempt at a roguish smile wasn’t half as convincing as the poor kid seemed to hope it would be – but Greg let it slide.

He didn’t believe a word out of the kid’s mouth though.

That’s not to say that their story wasn’t brilliant, because it was. Flawless in fact – as was Mike’s delivery of it and Lockie’s smartass additional little comments gave it a touch that put a number of grifter’s Greg had a _professional relationship_ with to shame.

But there were still tells (tiny though they may be) that gave them away.

Lockie’s smile drooping a little around the edges when he’d said that they must have missed their parents a great deal for instance. Or Mike’s faltering when he asked how excited he was to sleep in a bed again after weeks of camping ‘best part of the trip in my opinion... coming home’.

Over the years Greg’s gut had been pretty good to him and as such he’d learnt to listen to it when it had something to say. All through lunch it had been screaming that these kids had absolutely no intention of going back home.

Unfortunately – he also got the impression that they had a pretty good reason for it too.

But it wasn’t his place to decide whether the poor sods were better off as they were, and unfortunately (unfairly really) it wasn’t their place to decide it either.

And even if it made him feel like complete crap – he had a duty to fulfil.

“More drinks I think,” he announced as Lockie’s tirade about the utter stupidity of the world and everybody in it (which, if Mike’s eyerolls and put-upon sighs were anything to go by, was a favourite topic of his) drew to a close (or rather (he feared) an interlude).

“Just water again for you two?”

“Yes please,” Mike replied for the both of them, his polite smile balancing out Lockie’s unimpressed scowl quite affectively.

Greg grinned.

“Two waters and a pint coming right up then.”

It couldn’t have taken more than five minutes for him to make the call to the Yard’s in-house Social Worker whilst fetching the drinks.

But by the time he got back to the table... there was no sign of the boys whatsoever. Greg frowned. He walked up the street. He walked down it. He even checked inside the bloody station. No sign of either of them.

With a heavy sigh, he took his mobile back out and phoned the social worker again.

 

++  
  
  


“It’s just lunch,” Mycroft mimicked in an exaggerated high pitched voice as he and Sherlock jogged down alleyway after alleyway, putting as much distance between them and Scotland Yard as possible, “What harm can it do?”

“We got food didn’t we?” Sherlock reasoned, although his failure to rise to the bait of Mycroft’s unflattering impersonation gave him away more than any physical tell could ever hope. “And we got away in the end.”

“And what if we hadn’t?” Mycroft cried, glancing over his shoulder one more time before finally slowing his pace down to a hurried walk.

“Well we did, didn’t we?” Sherlock huffed.

A frustrated growl bubbled out of Mycroft’s throat and before he knew what he was doing he’d thrown their bag down to the ground, whirled around and grabbed the front of Sherlock’s jacket, pulling him about to face him properly.

“But what if we hadn’t?” he hissed, “Don’t you understand?! We could have been caught today!”

Sherlock shrugged.

His eyes widened when Mycroft roughly shook him where he stood.

“Why can’t you just take this seriously?” he cried, “We could have lost everything and for what?! A couple stupid steaks!”

Sherlock remained defiantly silent, refusing to so much as meet Mycroft’s eye.

With a disgusted hiss, Mycroft let him go with a slight shove.

“We’re going back to Paddington,” he announced, grabbing their bag, slinging it over his shoulder and setting off again.

Sherlock didn’t move.

Mycroft had had enough. He was scared, he was cold and they were still in danger of that man, Lestrade (Detective obviously. Hard worker. Rarely has time off. Forgot he had the day off – obvious, dressed for work but had time to spend lunch with them and didn’t even glance down at his watch once) stumbling across them and Sherlock was being difficult **as usual**.

Eyes narrowed, he stormed back over to him, grabbed a fistful of his jacket sleeve, before setting off again, dragging his brother along with him.

“Let go of me!” Sherlock yowled.

“If you want to act like a child I’ll treat you like one!” Mycroft snapped back.

“I said let go!” Sherlock bellowed.

“And I said no!” Mycroft roared, startling himself as well as Sherlock.

They stopped walking again.

Sherlock stared up at him with wide, wounded eyes.

Mycroft’s swallowed thickly.

“Just walk Sherlock,” he murmured, releasing him in spite of himself, “Please. We have to get out of here.”

Crossing his arms tight across his chest, Sherlock nodded sharply, refusing to meet Mycroft’s eye again. But he did follow Mycroft’s lead and for the time being, that was just going to have to be enough.

It wasn’t until an hour later, after the downright blinding terror of potentially being forced to watch his baby brother being taken away and put someplace where he couldn’t find him, couldn’t protect him, nothing... after all that finally passed and he’d had time to calm down, that Mycroft realized just how much he’d overreacted.

He glanced down at Sherlock, whose head was bowed and arms wrapped around his narrow chest as if he were hugging himself – and found his guilt and shame increasing tenfold.

He sighed.

“I’m sorry Sherlock,” he murmured, ducking his own head, “That was... it was a major overreaction and I apologise for taking it out on you.”

Sherlock just shrugged again.

“It wasn’t your fault. I know that as well as you do,” Mycroft insisted.

This time he got a squeaky sort of hum in reply. A sad, broken little thing.

With a sigh, Mycroft dropped their bag again, gently caught Sherlock’s shoulder before dropping down to his knees before him.

“I really am sorry for shouting at you Sherlock,” he croaked, “I didn’t mean to- I wasn’t angry with you I was just really scared and I lashed out. That was wrong or me and again, I apologies.”

Sherlock finally glanced up.

“I was scared to,” he squeaked, brave face crumbling about the edges.

“I know you were,” Mycroft sighed, pulling Sherlock in for a tight hug, “I know, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Sherlock shook his head, face still buried in the crook of Mycroft’s neck.

“This was a lesson, that’s all,” Mycroft murmured as he stood up once more, allowing Sherlock time to wrap his legs tight about his waist before stooping down to grab their bag again and slipping out of the to cross the road to Regent’s Park.

“We got away,” he murmured, although whether to soothe Sherlock or himself he wasn’t entirely sure. “He doesn’t know our real names; we got a nice meal out of it. We’re just going to have to be more careful from now on alright?”

“So no more dining with police officers?” Sherlock murmured, slowly beginning to detach himself from his brother’s torso.

“Precisely,” Mycroft chuckled before setting Sherlock back down on the ground.

“Right then,” he sighed, glancing about. “Where do you want to sleep tonight Brother-Mine?”


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N - I am so sorry that it has taken so long for me to update this (or anything else for that matter). If it's any consolation, I actually do have a good reason for it this time, considering half of this was written up in a hospital bed. But I still feel terribly guilty for taking forever, so again, my sincerest apologies. Fingers crossed the next update won't take so long.**

Chapter Six

The sun was shining and the sky was a bright and beautiful blue, adorned sparingly with clouds of the fluffy and white variety rather than their ominously grey and rumbling cousins. The air somehow tasted fresher, the traffic was flowing relatively faultlessly - there were even birds and young children (a conveniently placed school choir) singing in the park.

All in all, it was a fine day for the majority of London, and for once, the same could be said for the Holmes brothers as well.

Though they cared nothing for blue skies or singing children, Lady Luck had seen fit to grant them boons in the form of a Thai dinner (Found in boxes on the front step of a small restaurant by Kensington Gardens after closing hours) and a whole night's rest (thanks to a conveniently accessible and charmingly full charity bin).

But that wasn't all.

The day before, Mycroft had finally decided it was time to sell one of the knick-knacks they had saved from Ivor's initial rampage of the Holmes household.

He chose Pater's Pocket-Watch.

On the downside, it was a family heirloom. Their Grandfather had given it to Pater as a boy, just as Grandfather's father had given it to him and Pater had give it to Mycroft.

He'd felt dreadfully guilty about letting all of that heritage wind up in the greedy hands of some foul-mouthed, oily haired, crooked pawn broker.

Having said that... they did get £150 for it. And though that was little more than a fraction of the watch's true worth, it would sustain them both for at least a week, perhaps even two.

As such they decided to indulge in a long ago forsaken luxury whilst they could afford to do so. That is to say, they washed... everything.

They started with themselves.

Obviously - a teenager and his kid brother dropping into a spa would raise undesirable eyebrows (and 150 quid or not, they couldn't really afford that level of extravagance), but the Kensington Leisure Centre only cost £4 each, and once the morning crowd of the rest rooms thinned out, they got the showers all to themselves for as long as they wanted and were, for the first time, (wet-wipes, rainwater and restrooms could only do so much after all) squeaky clean.

They then headed north, almost to the centre of Notting Hill, before they finally found a nice, self-serve laundrette. They promptly dumped every washable belonging they had (including the bag itself) into a free machine, before spending the rest of the morning sitting guard in front of it, enjoying a most inappropriate (but satisfying) breakfast of Chinese take-away, working on their coursework and predicting the fortune cookies by turns.

Mycroft had known that it was but a brief respite. Soon enough, things will become difficult for them again, in fact, he didn't expect their luck to survive the setting of the sun. But he had hoped that it would hold out just a bit longer, just for one little thing. But of course that was too much to ask.

"Why do we have to do this every day?" Sherlock moaned, flopping across the park bench Mycroft was attempting to set him up at in a dramatic sulk.

"It's important," Mycroft murmured, readjusting his blazer for the sixth time in as many minutes, "Once I find a job, we won't have to keep looking. Besides, we don't do this  **every**  day."

Sherlock huffed.

With a fond smile and one last glance about the park, he promised, "It won't take long. No more than half an hour."

"This block," Sherlock grumbled, "And then we go to another and repeat the whole hateful exercise again."

Mycroft sighed.

"I'm afraid that, like most boring things Brother-Dear, this is a necessary evil."

Sherlock snorted.

"Now, you behave yourself. If you get into any trouble, come and find me, but that's only if there's trouble Sherlock, or you believe there's about to be. Otherwise stay here and stay inconspicuous. Can you do that?"

"If I must," Sherlock mumbled, shooting his brother a mutinous glare.

Mycroft grinned.

"Thank you Brother-Mine," he replied, tugging distractedly at the cuffs of his blazer once more before asking, "How do I look?"

"Dull," Sherlock sighed, letting his head drop to the table with a sound thunk.

Mycroft grinned.

"Perfect," he chuckled, swinging his old school bag over his shoulder, "Wish me luck."

"Whatever."

"Close enough I suppose."

For the next half hour, Sherlock sat dutifully at his assigned park bench, flicking through Mycroft's books, picking half-heartedly at his violin, humming sea-shanties under his breath, even doing a few chin-ups on an overhanging branch before Mycroft finally returned.

"No luck?" he asked.

"Afraid not," Mycroft sighed, smiling tightly, "Come on then."

"Come on?"

"If at first you don't succeed, try again. Or so they say at least."

Sherlock let out a loud groan, but picked up his bag and followed nonetheless.

Another park bench, another 30 minutes.

"Nothing?"

"Regrettably."

A playground and a further 40 minutes.

"Let me guess-"

"Is there really any need."

A McDonald's restaurant, 1 milkshake and a whole hour.

"Really?"

Mycroft didn't answer.

Sherlock frowned.

"What's wrong?" he asked as his brother marched over to the outside table he was sitting at, practically shaking with tension.

He grinned at him, one of those grins that looked more like a bearing of teeth than an actual smile, which, coming from  _'Mycroft: Master of polite trickery'_ , was saying a lot.

Placing his bag delicately down on the table, grinning the whole time, he asked through clenched teeth for Sherlock to, "Just hang on one more moment please," before stooping down, snatching up their duffel bag, spinning on his heel and disappearing down the nearest alley.

Sherlock's curiosity was peaked to say the very least.

Grabbing the abandoned satchel and his violin case as he went, he leapt off the table and ran after his brother without a second thought. He was glad he did.

"What you doing Mycroft?" he cheerfully asked as he waltzed inside the alley himself, walking past his brother (who was otherwise occupied trying to kick the stuffing out of their bag) and hopping up on top of the cleaner of the two skip bins stowed away there.

"Relieving frustration," Mycroft grumbled, booting the bag again.

"Like my screaming exercises?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head to the side.

Mycroft grunted an affirmative.

"Only quieter."

Mycroft grunted again.

"Is it making you any more relaxed?" he asked.

"Incredibly," Mycroft growled, dealing the bag yet another ruthless blow only to let out a loud yelp and stumble away.

"You don't look anymore relaxed," Sherlock innocently remarked as his brother hopped about the alley, trying (and failing) to put weight back on his suddenly tender foot.

Mycroft shot a reproachful glare over his shoulder.

Sherlock merely grinned in response.

With a sigh, he limped over to the bin and hefted himself up on top of it's lid as well.

"Alright," he murmured, "Maybe it not working out all that well."

"Obviously."

"My apologies for the... undignified display."

"Oh I quite enjoyed it."

Mycroft scoffed.

"You would, wouldn't you?" he chuckled, glancing down at him, "Enjoy it whilst you can then. It won't happen again."

Sherlock sniffed.

"Well what other alternative is there?" he asked, grimacing, "You don't want to...  _ **talk**_ , do you?"

Mycroft's smile took on a slightly bitter edge.

"What's the use?" he sighed, "The problem's obvious, is it not?"

"Nobody hired you." It wasn't a question.

Mycroft nodded anyway.

"All the usual responses. Not hiring. Need more experience. Don't do work experience either. And my personal favourite - ' _I know your kind boy_ '."

"Your kind?" Sherlock murmured with a frown.

Mycroft gestured to them, their bags and the alley they sat in.

"Our kind," he muttered bitterly, "Apparently I'm only going to squander it all on drugs anyway, so why bother?"

Sherlock scowled.

"Well forget them then," he replied with a disdainful sniff, "Clearly they're idiots. And you should never listen to idiots, remember?"

Mycroft sighed.

"Sometimes it's not a matter of choice."

Frowning, Sherlock did the only thing he could think of, he gave his brother a hard shove, earning yet another reproachful glare, one which he met with a scowl of his own.

"Stop moping. You'll get a job. Just because it didn't happen today-"

"It's not happened for five months now Sherlock."

"So what, you're just going to give up?" Sherlock snapped

"No," Mycroft snapped back.

"Well then, stop moping."

"I'm not moping," Mycroft sighed, running a hand through his hair and glancing heavenwards. "I was just hoping we would have a breakthrough today, that's all."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Tomorrow's the new today?"

"How optimistic of you," Mycroft murmured.

"I'm pretty sure that I'm quoting you," Sherlock retorted, "Your own fault really."

Mycroft scoffed.

"We're fine. We have the money from Pater's watch."

"That money will run out Brother-Mine," Mycroft sighed, "Quicker than you might think. We  **need** that breakthrough."

"We've been coping fine up until now," Sherlock reasoned.

Mycroft scowled down at the tips of his worn-out oxfords.

"Yes, because of you and your violin," he muttered.

Sherlock frowned.

"Yeah. What of it?"

"That's not how it's supposed to be Sherlock," Mycroft grit out, "I'm the big brother. You're the little brother. I'm supposed to be the one providing for us, taking care of us -"

"Oh I see. So, ideally, you'd have me just sit back, idle, whilst you ran our lives for us!" Sherlock snapped.

"No, that's not what I meant," Mycroft argued, "It's just... you don't understand."

"That's because you're not making any sense," Sherlock grumbled.

Mycroft sighed, dropping his head into his hands.

"This is my burden to bear Sherlock, that's what I mean. You shouldn't have to be responsible for the both of us and yes, ideally, I'd rather you didn't have to worry about any of it. I'm sorry, but there it is. You're just a kid."

"You can talk!" Sherlock cried.

"I'm older than you."

"Not that much older!"

"Old enough!" Mycroft snapped, "It's my responsibility and I'm just... nothings working! I'm doing something wrong. Surely, I must be doing something wrong here."

Sherlock blinked. Mycroft was rarely anything but cool, calm and collected. To see him this out of control was... strange to say the least. A little worrying even.

So he shoved him again, although this time, a little less roughly than before.

"Get a grip My," he ordered, "You're useless when you're hysterical."

Mycroft dragged his hands away from his face just enough to shoot a withering glare at him.

"I'm not hysterical," he grumbled.

"May as well be," Sherlock retorted.

For a long moment Mycroft just stared at him, before finally giving him a reluctant nod.

"Yes. I suppose you're right."

"I'm always right."

"Modest as ever," he chuckled, rubbing tiredly at his face.

"Pater always said  _'Modesty is no virtue to the logician'_ ," Sherlock retorted.

Mycroft smiled.

"Yes he did, didn't he?"

"And I'm trying to be logical here," Sherlock continued, "One of us has to be after all."

"Charming."

"And logically, we're fine," Sherlock continued, "And so long as I can keep playing - we'll be fine for a while longer, whether you like that or not."

Mycroft sighed.

"Either way, it's not like we're running out of time, is it?" Sherlock pressed, "It's not like we're starving or anything - we can get money if we need it."

Mycroft groaned

"I suppose."

"So I'll keep playing whilst we need me to," Sherlock declared, "And you keep looking for a job and stop moaning. And then once you get one we can work out something different. But when we started this, we agreed that we were going to look after each other didn't we?"

"Yes," Mycroft replied with a short nod, "We did."

"So that means that I get to do my part too," Sherlock insisted, "I'm not a baby Mycroft. I can help."

"I know you can Sherlock," Mycroft murmured, squeezing his brother's shoulder, "I know. And you are. I just wish I was doing as well as you."

Sherlock grinned.

"Come on," Mycroft sighed, smiling tiredly, "It's getting late. Let's go get some dinner. What do you want?"

"Chinese!" Sherlock cried, leaping off the skip.

"We had that for breakfast," Mycroft chided as he followed Sherlock back out to the road, "Mummy will be rolling in her grave."

Predictably, Sherlock ended up getting his way regardless of Mycroft's protests and they got Chinese again for dinner. But, as the sun made its decent down the city's skyline, Mycroft's earlier suspicions as to the longevity of their break were realised. They'd once again lost Lady Luck's favor.

It rained heavily that night and naturally, all of the properly covered spots to rest were either taken, patrolled or right out in the open (somewhere a nine year old boy should not be seen sleeping in the early hours of the morning).

So they ended up spending the night in the tightest corner they could find in some uncovered service alley behind a row of convenience stores, wrapped up tight in Mycroft's winter coat and huddled under the umbrella as much as they possibly could.

It wasn't a particularly restful evening.

The day that followed was no better.

Once again, Mycroft was rebuffed at every turn and, in spite of Sherlock's uncharacteristic optimism that everything will work out well in the end, was beginning to lose heart.

"It's just bad luck," Sherlock announced spraying chunks of apple across the park bench they were sitting on.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Mycroft murmured picking at his Garden Salad, "And of course it's bad luck. Bad luck seems to be the only thing we've got in spades as of late."

"You're moping again."

"I'm not!"

6 cafes. 8 offices. 17 shops. And that was all before noon.

"Surely there's a trick to it," Mycroft grumbled, as he plopped down beside Sherlock on top of somebody's garden wall. "I must be missing something."

"Probably."

"Thanks a lot."

"Chin up Mycroft," Sherlock retorted with a smirk, "Stiff upper lip and soldier on."

7 offices. A barber shop. 2 hair dressers. 3 McDonalds and a KFC. 22 shops.

" _Sorry kid, we're not hiring at the moment."_

" _Can't afford the staff I've already got to be honest mate."_

" _Wish I could help you lad, but I need someone with a little more experience."_

" _We're full."_

"This is beyond frustrating."

"Boring too," Sherlock replied with a shrug.

5 offices. A real estate agency. 2 News agencies. A doctor surgery. 3 bars. 19 shops.

" _You need a certificate to work here kid."_

" _So where are all your details on this thing?"_

" _They fine you for hiring drug addicts these days you know?"_

" _Aw bless. Come back when you grow into the puppy fat sweety. Can't hire kids."_

"Oh don't look so smug," Mycroft croaked.

"Told you it would help," Sherlock replied, a grin spread across his face.

"...My throat's sore."

"You were screaming pretty loudly."

"It was  **your** idea."

"It always helps me relax."

Seeing as they had been in the area for a little over a week any way and they simply weren't enjoying all that much success there, the brothers decided it was time to move on from Notting Hill. They caught the first train they could from Holland Park, getting off at Charring Cross.

"Perhaps we should try widening our field a little," Mycroft mused as he and Sherlock scouted out a quiet looking alleyway between a rather shoddy motel and an even shoddier pub. Perhaps not the safest place to spend the night, but it was blocked off at both ends (they'd had to climb over a fence to get in themselves) and so far as Mycroft could see, only accessible by the staff of the two establishments. He just hoped that it would be dark enough for them to go unnoticed should any of the aforementioned staff choose to venture out. Either way, Mycroft considered it a calculated risk.

"I don't want to leave London," Sherlock whined.

"I'm just thinking aloud Brother-Mine."

"Still don't wanna," Sherlock yawned.

"Try to get some rest," Mycroft murmured, wrapping his arm securely around his brother's shoulders, "We might have to move on later."

Sherlock grumbled.

"It's only five o'clock."

"You didn't sleep much last night."

Sherlock huffed moodily.

"Can't sleep," he sighed, wrapping his arms tight around his narrow chest. "Thinking."

"Stop thinking."

Mycroft couldn't help but grin at the filthy scowl that instruction received.

"Try to distract yourself," he murmured, running his hand through dark curls.

"I've tried," grumbled Sherlock, "I just end up thinking about more things."

Mycroft nodded.

"Pater used to read me stories when that happened to me," he replied, "Peter Pan, Wind In The Willows, Dracula and Frankenstein..."

"Doesn't work," Sherlock sighed. "Mummy used to sing to me."

"Okay," Mycroft murmured, pulling Sherlock closer and resting his head back against the bag, "What did she sing?"

Sherlock grinned and snuggled closer.

"All sorts," he mumbled.

"Well what would you like?"

"Pirates!" he grinned.

Which was how Mycroft found himself crooning hushed renditions of every sea shanty he could think of.

It couldn't have taken more than 20 minutes for Sherlock's breathing to even out and his eyelids to grow heavy as he drifted off to sleep.

Mycroft waited another ten minutes, just to be sure that his brother was well and truly unconscious, before carefully retrieving his history text book and essay from his bag and setting about proof reading it before they had to send it and the rest of that week's work off the following morning.

However, all thoughts of homework were run well and truly from his mind as the back door of the motel was flung open by a woman in surprisingly high heels and an off white coat, bathing both he and Sherlock in the light from inside.

"Oh," she gasped upon spotting them, "Hello there."

"Evening," Mycroft murmured, hurriedly snapping his book closed and reaching to stuff it back into the bag so he could wake Sherlock and make a hasty retreat before they got in too much trouble.

The woman laughed and raised her hand. Mycroft froze.

"There's no need to leave," she said, shutting the door behind her casting the alleyway into darkness but for the faint orange glow of the street lamp on the other side of the fence. "I'm just out here for a fag break, then I'm off."

Mycroft frowned uneasily, but decided it was safe to settle back down... for the time being at least. Sherlock needed all the sleep he could get.

The woman smiled and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from her coat pocket.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked, nodding at the upturned milk crate sitting by Mycroft's elbow.

Tightening his hold around Sherlock's shoulders and shifting slightly so to more of himself between him and her, he murmured a polite, "By all means," and settled for hoping that his assessment of this woman and her not being threat to them was a accurate one.

"Want one?" she asked, offering him the pack and lighter as she settled down.

"No thanks," Mycroft murmured, "I don't smoke."

"Good boy," she chuckled, lighting a cigarette for herself and taking a long drag from it, before turning back to Mycroft and holding out her hand, "I'm Missy."

Mycroft eyed the proffered hand dubiously.

The woman, Missy, grinned.

"Oh don't be like that darling," she chuckled, "I don't bite."

Glancing furtively down at a still slumbering Sherlock, Mycroft reluctantly shook the woman's hand, muttering, "Michael."

Missy grinned.

"You don't look like a Michael to me," she teased.

"You don't look like a Missy," Mycroft retorted.

"Point," Missy laughed, taking in another long drag, blowing the smoke over their heads.

"So," she drawled, "You two runaways or what?"

Mycroft frowned.

"What makes you say that?" he asked.

"Well you're hiding out behind this piece-of-shit for one thing," she teased.

"Well I hardly see how it's any of your business," Mycroft grumbled.

Missy grinned.

"Just making conversation sweetheart," she chuckled, "Don't worry, I'm not here to cause you trouble. You got more than enough of that already I'd wager."

"You sound like you speak from experience," Mycroft murmured.

"I do," Missy laughed, "Been there and done it sweetheart."

"Oh."

"So how long you been sleeping rough darling?" she asked, flicking her cigarette against the edge of the milk carton.

Mycroft's frown deepened.

"Why do you care?" he asked.

Missy shrugged.

"I'm bored and you look a little lonely. It's good to get things off your chest once in a while."

Mycroft nodded. She had a point.

"So?" she prompted.

"Almost six months," he reluctantly replied.

Missy whistled.

"Wha', you been on the streets the whole time."

Mycroft nodded.

"No couch-surfing or nothing?"

"None."

"Nice work," she chuckled, "I'd have thought Social Services woulda got a hold of you by now. Specially with short-stuff tagging along."

"Yes, well - we've been careful and they're not exactly looking for us," Mycroft murmured.

"Eh?"

"I doubt our  _ **guardian**_  has actually gotten around to reporting our absence yet," he muttered bitterly.

"Huh," Missy uttered with a slight shrug, "Well either way, it's quite an achievement. Well done."

"Thank you I suppose," Mycroft muttered.

"So what do you do?" she asked.

"Do?"

"To keep afloat. You know, work."

Mycroft sighed and ducked his head.

"My brother," he nodded at Sherlock, "Busks. That gets us by."

"You don't?" Missy asked.

"I'm a horrendous violinist, always have been," he chuckled, "And pianos aren't as handy as you would think."

Missy laughed.

"I've been trying to find work but... no luck."

"Well everyone is aren't they?" she replied with a sympathetic grimace.

"I suppose."

"What sorta work you looking for?"

Mycroft smiled bitterly.

"Anything," he sighed, "Anything and everything and still, nothing."

Missy smirked.

"You should give my job a try," she drawled, flicking ash off the end of her shrinking cigarette, "You'd be a natural."

"And what is it that you do may I ask?" Mycroft replied.

Missy smirked.

"Oh Sweety. Are you really that wet behind the ears?"

Frowning, Mycroft took as proper a look at the woman as he could in the semi darkness of their alley.

Her clothes were more revealing than was appropriate, her heels higher than was practical and perfume sprayed on heavier than one would think was necessary.

She was wearing heavy make up, which had recently been re-applied but still bore signs of smudging.

On top of that, it couldn't be more than ten minutes past six o'clock and she was leaving the motel with no apparent inclination to return. Why book a motel room if you were going to leave before the night was through? You wouldn't. Which meant she didn't, so what was she doing there? Visiting a friend? Why didn't the friend come out with her or bid her farewell? Not friends then. Visiting someone who's not a friend in a cheap motel and leaving immediately afterwards...

"Ah."

Missy grinned.

"Ah..." Mycroft murmured again, "Yes, well. I don't think that- well I don't believe that I'm quite-" he cleared his throat, "Escort material, sorry."

Missy laughed.

"I don't know," she chortled, "I reckon you'd be quite the hit sweety."

Mycroft couldn't help but scoff at that, even if the tips of his ears felt like they'd been set alight.

"I'm serious," Missy insisted, "I know a few people who'd just love to meet a cutie like you."

"Yes, well," Mycroft nervously cleared his throat again, "I don't- we're not quite- I'm not sure-"

Missy giggled, patting Mycroft's shoulder comfortingly.

"Calm down sweetheart, you've not signing up for anything," she laughed, "I'm just saying, it's good money, so long as you know the right people. You could feed and shelter that little guy and yourself, easily, and for not all that much work too. Once you get over the first go or two, it's nothing."

Mycroft gulped.

"I'm earning about 60 quid every half hour at the moment," Missy continued, "And I know people who earn far more than that."

He honestly didn't know what was worse, the fact that this woman thought that he would actually be willing to do any of that or the fact that for maybe £100+ a night, a tiny part of him had begun questioning whether they could afford to be picky.

"People do it for free all the time anyway," Missy carried on, taking a long drag from her cigarette, "Bloody waste if you ask me."

Yes, Mycroft decided, they could definitely afford to be picky.

Tightening his grip around Sherlock's shoulders, he cleared his throat and calmly replied, "A fair point. But I'm afraid, though I appreciate the thought, that I just don't think that that line of work is for me, sorry."

"You sure?" Missy coaxed with a teasing grin tugging at her scarlet lips.

Mycroft nodded.

She didn't look all that convinced.

"I am," he insisted.

Missy sighed.

"Well if you say so kid," she drawled, and Mycroft thought (hoped) that that was the end of it.

It wasn't.

"But I'll tell you what," she continued, snatching the pen and Text-Book that had been resting precariously on his knee throughout their conversation, "If you ever change your mind, you give this number a call."

She scribbled a name and number down onto the title page, shooting him an encouraging grin.

"These are some friends of mine. You tell them I gave you this and they'll set something up for you right away," she said, thrusting it back into Mycroft's hands, "Trust me."

"Thank you," he murmured, glancing down dubiously at his once respectable scholarly aid, turned  _Little Black Book_.

Dropping her cigarette butt to the ground and stamping it out with the tip of her shoe, Missy patted his shoulder again and stood up, saying with a quick wink, "You just think it over Sweety," before breezing back through the motel door and out of sight without so much as a backwards glance.

Mycroft frowned, first at the door through which she'd disappeared, then down at the number once it had swung shut.

They weren't that desperate, thank goodness. Things wouldn't get that bad. Sherlock was right, whilst he could still play, whether he, Mycroft, liked it or not, they were still going to stay afloat. They'd be fine. Things wouldn't come to that.

And yet, he couldn't really bring himself to rip out the page because... well, what if they did?

Mycroft shook his head and forced himself to stop thinking about it. He was tired and still a little shocked over being told he'd make a good rent boy, that was all, he wasn't thinking clearly, so it was best not think of it at all.

Pointedly folding the front page in half so the number was no longer visible, he flicked back to the chapter on The Great War and continuing the perusal of his essay on it, steadfastly ignoring the quiet but niggling voices at the back of his mind, replaying the conversation with Missy on loop.

They were fortunate enough to enjoy a whole two hours peace before, once again, the alley was compromised by another cigarette break. This one, most unfortunately, being that of the pub's  _owner_.

After a lot of shouting, fist waving and some (regrettable) retaliatory secret baring ('You are aware you're wearing your wife's lover's trousers, aren't you?" "Shut up Sherlock!" "They're not even clean.") they were sent off running with the threat of police involvement should they ever be caught 'skulking' about said pub again.

"I admit it was an over-reaction on his part," Mycroft sighed as they walked across Trafalgar Square, ducking as Sherlock attempted to splash water from the fountain at him, "But you really needn't fan the fires Sherlock."

"He was an idiot."

"That's your excuse for everything."

Sherlock snorted.

"Well you had a nice sleep at least," Mycroft murmured, glancing about them as they crossed the main road and carried on down Northumberland Street, looking for another place to rest.

Sherlock pulled a face.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"You needed to sleep Brother-Mine," he chastised.

"Dull. Waste of Time."

"Oh don't start that again for pity's sake."

"You didn't sleep," Sherlock grumbled.

"Give me strength."

"Why should I have to sleep if you don't."

"I was about to-"

"You're such a hypocrite."

"You're a Brat."

"Prat."

"Gnat."

"Gnat?"

However, before their squabbling could continue any further, both boys attention was drawn elsewhere, namely the front door of a suitably full Italian restaurant, through which a not inconsiderably intoxicated man in a chef's uniform was flung straight out.

"Out of my restaurant," the man doing the throwing, presumably the owner, bellowed, "You're drunk!"

The man staggered to a stop and spun about to confront his employer, only to think better of it upon catching sight of said man's downright thunderous expression.

Blurting out something what sounded somwhat like a slurred 'Don't need this job anyway', the man promptly spun back around and tottered off across the street, tripping over the gutter and almost getting hit by an oncoming cab before so much as reaching the other side.

"And stay away!" the owner yelled after him, glaring on the front step until the (former)chef had stumbled out of sight.

With one last disdainful sniff, the owner turned to head back into the restaurant.

"Come on," Mycroft murmured, taking Sherlock's hand.

* * *

He'd given the man every chance to clean up his act. Far more than any other employer would have, surely.

But this was it. Turning up to work hungover was one thing. Turning up, not only late, but utterly smashed, was another one entirely. The lad had a problem, yes, but sooner or later, a man had to put his foot down and say enough was enough.

Shaking his head pityingly, Angelo Del Sarto resolved to give Tony's mobile one last call once they closed up shop, just to make sure he wasn't spending the night in the gutter, before turning to head back into his restaurant to apologise to his patrons for the scene.

"Excuse me," someone called from behind him.

He glanced over. Two kids, a teenage boy and his much younger companion, quickly made their way across the street and over to him.

"Can I help you?" he asked, turning to face them properly.

"Yes sir," the elder boy replied, quickly placing the bag and case he'd been carying on the ground so he could stand up straighter, "I think you can."

Angelo's eyebrows rose.

Clearing his throat the boy continued.

"I couldn't help but notice that you seem to have a vacancy sir," he said.

"Yes I suppose I do," Angelo grumbled. Bloody Tony.

Nodding quickly, the boy continued, "Indeed. Fortunately sir, I believe that I could fill it for you. My name's Mike by the way, Mike Sigerson."

"Is that right?" Angelo chuckled. "And you are?" he asked the younger boy.

"Basil," the kids chirped, shooting a smug grin up at the older lad, Mike, who merely rolled his eyes.

"Well tell me Mike," he said, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he turned his attention back to the kid, "Do you have any experience in the kitchen?"

The kid's nervous glance down at Basil still clinging to his hand was all the answer he needed.

"Not in the professional sense, no," he admitted, quickly adding, "But I really am a quick learner sir. I'd pick it up in no time, I assure you."

Angelo sighed.

"Look lad, I'm sorry - but I don't have the time to train someone from scratch."

"But you wouldn't be sir," Mike insisted, a note of desperation creeping into his tone. "I have had some training sir. Nothing official of course, but I used to spend a lot of time in my old school's kitchens, helping out, and the chefs used to teach me a thing or two when there was time. I did a couple of years of Food Technology too. I know the basics sir, and I swear I'll pick up the rest quickly."

Angelo sighed, scrubbing tiredly at his face.

"Please sir, I'm begging you," Mike pleaded, eyes wide, "I'm a hard worker, I'll work for half of what you're paying everyone else. I swear, you wouldn't regret it."

Angelo frowned. He knew that tone of voice, that sense of desperation. He'd seen it before, felt it himself.

For the first time, he turned his attention to the boys and  **really**  looked.

They were obviously tired, the great bloody bags under their eyes rivalled the ones they were lugging around on their backs for goodness sake. And they were young too. But more than anything they were just so... small. So so small and vulnerable in such a big world and all on their own.

Angelo knew how that felt. He grew up in a poor neighbourhood with more brothers and sisters than he could count and a mother and father that could never be counted on. He knew how that felt, being alone in the world at an age where a helping hand was supposed to be ever-present.

He also knew that sometimes all it took to turn the lives of kids like that around was just one opportunity, just one person willing to take a chance on them and give them a go - help them make something of themselves.

It worked for him after all.

Sighing, Angelo ran a hand through his thinning hair and glanced heavenwards. One of these days, he was going to have to put his foot down and say enough is enough. But not today.

"Please sir," Mike all but begged, "I can do it. I swear."

"I'm sure you can lad," Angelo sighed.

"I could help too," Basil piped, "Two for the price of one."

An indulgent smile spread across Angelo's face.

"We can speak Italian too you know?" he added.

"Can you now?" Angelo chuckled, "Bene?"

The boys exchanged a quick glance before replying in perfect unison, "Molte Bene."

Sweet Mary and Joseph he hoped this wouldn't come back to bite him.

"Well with a pitch like that, how could I refuse," he chuckled, "Welcome aboard."

"Really? Thank you so much sir," Mike gushed, enthusiastically shaking his hand.

"Yeah, thanks," Basil piped.

"We won't let you down."

"You better not," Angelo gruffly replied, "So when can you lads start?"

"Immediately sir," Mike replied.

"Right then, come on. We'll throw you right in the deep end, see what you've got," Angelo boomed, taking a hold of his shoulder and leading both of them around to the back of the restaurant. "You can leave your bags in the staff room. They'll be safe there. We got a change room next to it, wash up in there, we'll have to work something out for uniforms. Do you have any clean clothes?"

"Yes sir."

"Right, wear those then. Once you've done that, report to the kitchen, I'll tell Luca to expect you."

"What about me?" Basil asked.

"You stick with your mate for tonight lad. Then we'll work something out for you on the floor. Billy will be glad to have you."

"'Kay."

"Right then," Angelo chuckled, holding open the staff door for them, "Off with you then. Adiamo."

"Yes sir."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Again, sorry for being such a slow writer. However, this is a rather big chapter, so I hope that goes some way to appeazing you :)
> 
> Thank you all for the lovely reviews and for everyone who wished me well after the hospital situation, thank you so much, I really am quite touched by all your concern. I am fine now :) Down a Gall Bladder but otherwise completely unharmed. Thank you regardless.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys like this chapter and thank you so much for reading (and waiting. My god, sorry against about the waiting).

 

**  
**

Truth be told, Mycroft hadn't really expected to enjoy working at Angelo's restaurant all that much. That is to say, he hadn't thought that he would look back on the experience in years to come with any real fondness, as he had never before considered the food industry as a potential career path ('astonishingly' Sherlock would say).

 

And yet in spite of that, it would later stand out as perhaps one of the happiest periods of his life, and certainly the best five weeks of his and Sherlock's  _homeless stint_.

Of course, it certainly wasn't easy. The job itself was demanding. Everything had to be done as quickly as possible, as well as possible and as the pressure built throughout the night, tempers had been known to flare.

And on top of that, there was Angelo, who was always pushing them, both of them, to work harder than everybody else, to do more, do it better, do it faster and do it gladly.

He made them work hard for their keep.

Most in their position would probably consider such behaviour as unabashed exploitation. Not Mycroft though.

He understood their employer's true intentions, and he truly appreciated it. If anyone needed to understand the importance of hard work and perseverance, it was his brother, and Mycroft was neither foolish nor arrogant enough to consider himself beyond a reminder as well.

They worked the dinner shifts, every night of the week, Mycroft in the kitchens under the watchful eye of the  _very_ Italian Head Chef - Luca Paparelli (who had an unfortunate habit of wrapping people's knuckles with a wooden spoon when they were about to do something wrong) and Sherlock out on the floor, acting as a little shadow for Billy, the unofficial head-waiter, spouting the odd Italian endearment and weathering the cooing and cheek-pinching of overly affectionate patrons like a champ ('astonishingly' Mycroft  **did**  say).

They closed up around 11 every night, cleaned up until a little past midnight, and everyone who chose to hang around for it, got whatever food was left over. A free meal and an extra half hour in the warmth of the kitchens, they were hardly going to turn an opportunity like that down.

It was a massive step in the right direction so far as Mycroft was concerned, far greater an improvement than either he or Sherlock could have ever hoped for after playing the part of fate's play things for such a long time. He honestly couldn't think how matters could possibly get any better for them.

So when, after little more than a week working for him, Angelo pulled them both aside as everyone was making their way home, to have 'a nice, quiet chat' he did not think for a moment that anything good would come of it.

In fact, as their boss ordered them to sit down on the sofa as he dragged a chair over for himself, his stomach was so knotted he was beginning to feel physically ill.

Angelo's sighed, "I'm not sure I feel too comfortable with this boys," confirmed his fears.

But as ever, you couldn't tell by looking at him.  _'Never let them see you on the ropes,'_  their father used to say,  _'That's when they go in for the knock out'_.

So rather than beg and plead like he felt he really ought to, Mycroft heeded to his father's advice and merely cleared his throat, steepled his fingers and arched his brow in a practiced display of calm interest, before asking, "Not comfortable with what sir?"

"Mike, stop calling me sir," Angelo sighed. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Apologies. Habit," he murmured with a tight smile, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side as an indication that his question still stood.

Angelo ran a hand through his thinning hair. A nervous tick. Not good.

"I don't like the idea of you two wandering about the streets this time of night. It's not a nice area. Where do you even go?"

Mycroft could feel his composure beginning to waver in the midst of his distress. That's what happens when one goes so long without practice he supposed. Regardless, the mask, though in place, was quickly beginning to fall, he needed to settle this fast.

"We stay with our Grandmother sir- sorry, Angelo. She has an apartment not far from here," he replied, his tone was bland with just a hint suspicion mixed in, the former to convince him it was true, the latter to discourage the continuation of the conversation.

And yet Angelo remained unconvinced.

"I don't believe ya," he gruffly replied, arms folded over his broad chest.

Mycroft frowned. Perhaps a little earnestness would convince him.

"It's quite true," he said, ensuring his eyes were properly wide and guileless.

It did no good.

"Well I'll walk you there then," Angelo announced, clapping his hands together as he stood and grabbed his coat off the back of his chair. "Come on."

Mycroft's heart felt like it was trying to break free from the confines of his ribcage, it was thudding that hard. What were they supposed to do? Lead the way to some random apartment building perhaps. But what if he insisted on walking them to the door? Too many variables.

He can't change the story now. What would he change it to anyway? The camping one would hardly work.

Angelo cleared his throat and Mycroft realised with a sinking dread that neither he nor Sherlock had moved.

"Would you two like to tell me the truth now?" he asked, sitting back down.

Mycroft cleared his throat again, resisting the urge to shift or fidget in his discomfort.

Well they had no hope selling a story now. He'd try evasive honesty.

"I assure you, we are perfectly fine," he said, holding Angelo's gaze. "Our living situation may be somewhat... tumultuous, I grant you, but completely under control regardless. There's no need to worry."

Angelo sighed, shaking his head.

Mycroft could feel himself beginning to panic. He wasn't going to let this go.

He leant forward, resting his arms on his knees and fixing them both with a firm gaze Mycroft found himself struggling to hold more and more with each passing second.

"Now you two be honest with me right now, or you'll be out on your ears before you know it," he said, deathly serious.

Mycroft gulped. Sherlock nodded.

"Do you have anywhere to sleep tonight?"

Mycroft went to spin yet another tale, but hesitated... again. Nothing was coming to mind and he'd already pulled out all the stops for his earlier charade, Angelo had still seen through it. Then, just to really top it off, in his panic he did something unforgivably stupid... he gave into what was quickly become a nervous tick of his and glanced down at Sherlock, who was sitting rigidly (and tellingly silent) beside him.

And that was all the answer Angelo needed.

"Boys," he groaned, rubbing tiredly at his face.

"What are you going to do?" Mycroft quietly asked, swallowing thickly (though whether it was due to emotion or nausea he was not sure). It was all over now, surely.

"What can I do?" Angelo murmured, his voice muffled by his hands.

Mycroft blindly reached for Sherlock's hand, squeezing it once he found it, a silent warning that they might have to run very soon.

"We'll leave," he beseechingly replied. "Now. Please, just don't call Social Services... or at least give us a head start."

Angelo glanced up at them.

"Don't you think a life  _in care_  would be better than one on the streets?" he asked.

This time, Mycroft didn't hesitate for a moment.

"They'd split us up," he answered with great conviction.

"You don't know that."

He sighed.

"I'm as good as certain," he replied. "I've done the research. It's common practice. Foster parents tend to dislike taking in siblings, too much history. They feel left out. It's their family, why take on that burden when you needn't? There's also a large age gap between us, which makes separation more likely. And, of course, we have... difficult personalities, which usually results in lots of moving throughout _the system_  so far as I can see, so once again, an increased risk of separation. No, I don't know  _for sure_ , but I wouldn't wager against it."

Pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut, Angelo nodded his reluctant agreement.

"Nor would I," he conceded.

"At least this way we can keep an eye out for each other," Mycroft said.

"I assume returning home is not an option?" Angelo asked.

"Absolutely not!" snapped Sherlock, crossing his arms tight over his chest.

Mycroft smiled apologetically.

"Afraid not," he said. "I doubt things have gotten any better since we left."

"And it was a good reason was it?" Angelo asked. "For leaving."

Mycroft nodded.

"The situation was becoming... volatile, to say the least."

Angelo glanced at Sherlock, who was too busy scowling down at the fraying tear on the arm of the sofa to notice.

Mycroft nervously cleared his throat once again.

"I understand this puts you in a difficult position," he said.

"Bloody right it does," Angelo grumbled.

And that was that then.

Best get out whilst Mycroft's argument against foster care was still fresh in his mind.

"We'll leave now then, if you don't mind," he sighed, nudging Sherlock to stand up. He offered his hand and a small smile, it wouldn't do to be impolite. "Thank you for the opportunity si- Angelo... I'm sorry it didn't work out."

Mycroft had expected that to be the end of it, a firm shake, perhaps or regretful reply if they were lucky, and then a quick escape before anybody changed their minds.

And yet Angelo continued to carry on regardless of all of Mycroft's expectation, choosing instead to do the exact opposite.

"Oh sit down for goodness sake," he gruffly replied, waving his hand irritably at them.

"I'm sorry?" Mycroft asked, a crease appearing between his knitted brows as he attempted to determine whether he'd heard right.

"I said sit down," Angelo snapped (apparently he had.). "I'm not gonna turn you in and I'm certainly not going to turn you out. I figured when I hired you that you two fellas were doing it rough. I'd just hoped I was wrong about  _how rough_."

And there it was, a tiny little light at the end of the tunnel, so small it was hardly in view but there regardless.

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged apprehensive glances, before settling back down on the edge of the sofa (Sherlock's hands still clutched tightly in Mycroft's).

Ordinarily he wouldn't take the risk. He'd grab Sherlock and they would leave before things went sour (as they so often did) and hope for the best. But this time... perhaps, it was worth the risk... maybe, they might still get out of this with their jobs.

"Well what are you going to do?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know," Angelo grumbled, "I can't have you going off wandering the streets."

"It's fine," Mycroft insisted. "We're really careful."

"I'm sure you are lad," Angelo replied, "But I still can't, in good conscious, let you go off like that. You're good kids. I don't want nothing bad to happen to you. You understand?"

Mycroft warily nodded.

"Don't bloody know what to do with you though," Angelo sighed.

Mycroft bristled a bit at that, in spite of his efforts to remain level-headed. He appreciated the concern, of course, but they  _didn't_ need someone to just butt in and ' _do something'_  with them, thank you very much.

This time Angelo didn't take any notice. Typical really.

"No room up in my loft," he carried on. "Trust me. And it's not like you can't stay down here-"

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, deftly ignoring Mycroft's hissed instructions for him to hush.

"Well there's no beds," Angelo replied.

"We don't need beds," Sherlock piped. "We can sleep here. The sofas would be fine. Oh... we wouldn't break anything, promise."

Angelo frowned.

"I apologise for him," Mycroft hurriedly said.

"Hey!"

"Brother-Mine... be quiet," he hissed, before turning back to Angelo. "We completely understand why that would be utterly out of the question."

Angelo tapped thoughtfully at his chin.

"Why would it be out of the question though?" he murmured, a sly smile slowly spreading across his wide face.

"I'm sorry?"

"Sleeping down here," he replied. "It's not perfect. The sofas are rubbish and the fellas start turning up around nine. If you can sleep through the racket they make, you're far better men than me. But it would be safe, you should get a full night's rest, you'd never be late to work..."

"You're serious?" Mycroft asked, glancing down disbelievingly at his brother, who merely smirked back in reply.

"Why not?" Angelo asked.

"Yeah My," Sherlock jeered, sharing a conspiratorial grin with their employer. "Why not?"

"I- it's your restaurant!"

"What, the crew room not good enough for you?" Angelo chuckled.

"Don't be such a snob My-"

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Mycroft snapped. "What if we broke something?"

"I already said we wouldn't," Sherlock grumbled.

"Brother-Mine, you're a human wrecking ball," Mycroft retorted.

"I've got insurance," Angelo replied with a shrug.

"What would the others say if they found out?"

"Mike lad," Angelo chuckled, "Luca has made it very clear that he would be having this conversation with you if I didn't. Billy and all the others backed him up. They're just as worried about you as I am. They would be relieved."

Well that was... unexpected.

Mycroft swallowed thickly, head spinning slightly at the thought of so many people caring about their well-being after so long of having no one giving a damn about it. It didn't make sense. None of this was making any sense at all.

"Kid?" Angelo murmured, a concerned frown creasing his brow.

"Why?" Mycroft uttered.

"I told you already, it's not a nice part of town for two kids in the wee hours-"

"No- I mean, why help us at all?" Mycroft asked, glancing up. "Why care? Surely it's more trouble than we're worth."

"Gift horses My," Sherlock murmured warningly.

"As far as those go Brother Dear, you and I are positively Trojan," Mycroft retorted, before turning back to a bemused Angelo. "I'm sorry. I don't want to seem ungrateful, because truly, I am, but... it just doesn't- I don't understand."

Angelo sighed.

"You're good kids," he replied, more than a little tiredly. "And Christ, you  **are**  still kids Mike. We're decent folk, and a lot of us have had it pretty tough growing up too. We just want to do what we can."

Mycroft frowned. Angelo seemed, for all the indicators he could spot, completely genuine. But still...

"Come on My-" Sherlock pleaded.

"I don't know," Mycroft murmured, glancing uneasily from his brother to his employer. "I- it's nothing personal... it's just" he sighed, "This is very new-"

"Having somewhere to stay?" Angelo asked.

"Having someone care," Sherlock replied before Mycroft could (or had to).

Angelo heaved a deep, long sigh.

"I know lad," he murmured regretfully. "I know."

Mycroft finally gave up all pretence of control (it wasn't doing him any good any way) and fidgeted uncomfortably with the hem of his shirt as the pregnant silence lingered on.

This was all happening too fast for his liking.

First they got a job, which is brilliant. And on top of that the job itself was great, and they got free food, and now they were being offered a place to stay and... it was just all too good to be true, or at the very least, too good to last.

It would come back to bite them in the end, he just knew it.

"Can we not just... pretend you didn't know?" he asked. "Let's just say that you believed me when I said we were staying with our Grandmother. Couldn't we just- things have been working fine the way they are haven't they?"

"That's not the point Mike," Angelo sighed. "Don't you understand how dangerous it is out there?"

If his pride had been stinging earlier, it was well and truly beginning to bruise know.

His eyes narrowed as, in spite of his best efforts, his hackles began to rise at the question, or rather, the accusation.

What was that supposed to mean exactly?  _'Don't you understand_?' He  **was not s** ome naive child that needed to be taken in hand. He knew full well the danger he routinely put his brother and himself in, it kept him awake at night more often than not.

But he also knew the danger he'd be putting them in if he allowed them to just go and shack up with anybody who offered a room or a bed or a sofa without  _really_ being sure about it. He'd allowed them to sink as low as homelessness - he was not going to risk their situation worsening further still.

But he didn't say any of this of course.

Instead he merely grumbled an unimpressed, "Yes, of course I do."

Unfortunately, the unconvinced twitch of Angelo's brow and the muttered, "I don't think you do?" did nothing to cool his flaring temper in.

"Of course I understand," he growled, before he could think better of it, his teeth and fists clenched. "We have been living like this for almost half a year for god's sake!"

"And what dangers have you actually encountered?" Angelo asked him, infuriatingly calm.

Mycroft huffed an angry scoff, only to find that he had no answer for him.

Angelo's left brow inched higher.

"Have you been assaulted?" he asked, "Mugged?"

"No," Mycroft resentfully replied.

"Has anyone come at you with a knife? A gun? Drugs? Any of that?"

"No," Mycroft muttered again.

"Anything  **like** that?"

And after a long moment of mutinous silence, Mycroft was forced to grumble a shame-faced, "...Nothing like that," his pride beaten all the more with every syllable.

"Then believe me boy, you do not  _understand_  anything," Angelo gravely announced. "You've both been so lucky - but everyone's luck runs out eventually."

"Why are you doing this?" Mycroft cried, all semblance of his fraying sense of self-control shattering as he leaped to his feet. "Do you want me to be scared about what's out there? Well I assure you, you needn't bother. I'm not a child Angelo and I am certainly not an idiot! I know what could happen! I worry about it constantly! Don't you understand? I am trying to keep us safe! That's all I'm trying to do! I'm doing the best I can!"

For a long moment, Angelo didn't say anything. He just sat there, silent in his chair, gazing tiredly up at him, Mycroft, standing there with his fists clenched and chest heaving, a hair's breadth away from stamping his foot with frustration, every inch the child that he'd been so insulted about being considered.

He groaned, flopping back down onto the sofa and covering his rapidly reddening face with his hands. This is why one shouldn't allow their emotions to get the better of them, in the end you wind up looking like an utter arse.

A heavy hand rested gently on his shoulder, and Mycroft, in spite of himself, glanced up.

Angelo gave him a small, sad smile.

"Nobody said you weren't son," he murmured. "And nobody's calling you an idiot. If you were one, there wouldn't be much point even bothering with this conversation. But you  **are**  a child, and you need help. Only fools turn down help when it's needed."

Mycroft ducked his head.

"Come on boy," he sighed, giving Mycroft's shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "Let us help you."

"Come on My," Sherlock murmured, giving his shoulder a light shove. "It will be fine. He's not lying, I can tell."

With a soft scoff, Mycroft lifted his head high enough to peek over at his brother.

"Can you really?" he murmured.

"Absolutely," Sherlock replied with a confident nod.

Mycroft sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. He had a horrible feeling that this was all going to end in tears, if not tomorrow, then sometime in the future. But Angelo was right, they did need help and even if it was just for a few days, a roof over their heads would be nice.

"Alright," he finally murmured, sitting up straight and glancing tiredly from his brother to Angelo. "If you're sure about this-"

"I'm sure."

"Well then, we appreciate it, thank you."

So they stayed for the night. And then when they woke up the next morning to find that Social Services were not in fact banging down the crew room door, they decided to spend the next as well. It became a habit. Before long, they were practically living at the restaurant. And if some of the staff brought the odd blanket or pillow to work for one reason or another, and promptly forgot to take it back home again, nobody commented on it.

For the first time in months they got to sleep for a full eight hours a night (at least), and after a hard night's work, they slept soundly.

They woke when the Lunch staff turned up in the morning (making more noise than a herd of buffalo). They packed everything away, washed in the locker room, worked on their course-work before heading out for lunch (an actual, proper lunch... for two! Having money was something neither of them were going take for granted again).

For a little under a month, everything was brilliant. They were more or less financially sound, had food and shelter and were surrounded by people who did not merely tolerate their presence, but welcomed it, embraced it even.

Sure, their living arrangements weren't exactly ideal (they couldn't keep sleeping on the sofas forever after all) and they were going to have to work something out, whether it was asking Angelo for his help getting a lease on a flat (doing so on one's own at 16 without guardian involvement was turning out to be impossible) or moving in and sharing one with Billy or Paola like they had offered; but they  **were** finally in a position where an actual long term solution was in grasp.

Which was probably why it hurt so much, after taking such a massive leap forward towards their moving on with their lives, to be knocked all the way back to square one.

The trouble started almost exactly four weeks into their run at Angelo's. They'd been preparing for dinner for about an hour and the first few reservations were just beginning to walk through the door. Angelo was out on the floor with Billy and Sherlock, greeting them and taking orders. Luca was in full form, barking instructions like a general would to his troops (his wooden spoon, as ever, in hand) expecting utter perfection and nothing less. Generally, things didn't seem to be all that out of the ordinary.

"Watch it does not burn Michele!" Luca barked, punctuating each word with a sharp wrap around Mycroft's already bright red knuckles. "You must  **never**  burn risotto."

"It's not burning," Mycroft argued.

"It's not now, certainly," Luca smugly retorted.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, only to yelp when his knuckles once again made swiff acquaintance with the back of Luca's spoon.

"Would you stop doing that?" he grumbled, gingerly rubbing the sore skin.

"Oh stop your whining," Luca replied. "This was how I learned everything I know today. It's going to make you tough."

"It's going to make the backs of my hands tough, that's what it's going to do," Mycroft muttered, tugging said hands away just in time to avoid another whack.

"No respect, that's the problem with the youth of today," Luca sighed, lumbering away with one last forlorn shake of the head.

"Christmas is in the air," he called as he began walking circuits around the kitchen, taking a deep breath to further illustrate his point.

"It's 26th October," Billy scoffed, before darting out with some plates.

"Nonetheless!" Luca cried, "The holiday season is  _our_ season boys-"

"And girls," Puola snapped from the Pizza Station.

" _Team_  would more gender-inclusive," Mycroft commented, promptly stuffing his hands deep inside his pockets upon spotting Luca's reproachful glare (the smirk stayed in place though).

"Anyway!" he barked, "We need to pick up the pace now so we're ready."

"You say that every year."

"Well if you didn't need reminding-" Mycroft tuned them all out after that and focussed on cooking Table 2's risotto.

At least he did, right up until Sherlock dashed around the corner, as low to the ground as he could get, and ran right up to him.

"What are you doing?" Mycroft cried, wincing as Luca appeared out of nowhere to wrap his knuckles once again.

"We're in trouble My," Sherlock whispered, eyes wide as he glanced nervously at the doors.

"Why?" Mycroft asked. "What have you done?"

"It's not my fault!" Sherlock blustered indignantly. "We have to get out of here! Come on!"

Mycroft frowned.

"I can't. I've got work to do and so do you. What are you even doing in here?"

"You're not listening!"

"Basil!" Billy barked, storming into the kitchen.

"Apologise," Mycroft snapped, before turning back to his own work.

Sherlock sighed and stomped over to Billy.

Mycroft didn't think much more of it until Billy proceeded to call Luca over to The Line, sending Sherlock back to wait with Mycroft.

"What have you done?" Mycroft hissed, glancing furtively to where both of their bosses were talking on the other side of the kitchen, voices hushed and expressions sombre.

"I already told you," Sherlock snapped. " **I**  didn't do anything!"

"You said we were in trouble."

"We are!"

"Sherlock, if you just got us fired I swear I'll-"

"Michele!"

Mycroft spun around at Luca's bark. Both he and Billy were looking worryingly grim.

"Take your break."

Mycroft's heart sank.

"What? Why?"

"Just do it kid," Billy called, already balancing new dishes on his arms.

"Seriously Michele, you'll be wanting to take it  _now_  - your brother will explain."

Mycroft was beyond confused.

"Come on!" Sherlock whined, grabbing a hold of his brother's arm and tugging him towards the back door as hard as he could. Finally, Mycroft left his station.

He did, however, pause once more to ask, "Back at 6?"

Luca merely nodded before turning back to hiss something urgent at Billy. At least they weren't fired.

Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief.

Sherlock was still pulling persistently at his sleeve.

"Wait!" Mycroft said. "I need to hang up my apron."

"No!" Sherlock cried, chasing after him as he headed towards the dining room doors, beside which the coat pegs hung.

"And why can't we go into the Crew Room?" he asked, tugging at the straps tied behind his back before pulling the aforementioned apron over his head and hanging it up, "It's freezing outside."

"We just can't!" Sherlock snapped. "Come on."

"I'm at least getting our coats, for goodness sake!" Mycroft snapped.

"No!"

"Oh would you just tell me what is going on!" Mycroft barked, running a hand irritably through his hair.

But before Sherlock could respond, Mycroft heard for himself.

'-just got some questions as to your whereabouts on the 19 of October," announced a gruff and terrifyingly familiar voice.

Mycroft's eyes widened.

"See!" Sherlock hissed.

Swearing, Mycroft grabbed a hold of his brother and legged it as fast as he could across the kitchen and out the back door.

"What the hell is he doing here?" he cried as they burst out into the back alley..

"How am I supposed to know?" Sherlock snapped, "He just walked in!"

"Did he see you?"

"I don't know," Sherlock replied, "I hid the second I saw him coming past the window."

"But you're not certain?" Mycroft pressed.

"I'm never 100% sure of anything," Sherlock snapped, fisting his hair. "There's always room for error. There's always something!"

"Damnit Sherlock!" Mycroft cried.

"I'm 90% sure!" Sherlock yelled back. "Maybe 95%. I did everything I could alright?"

Mycroft ran a hand through his hair, pacing back and forth before of his brother, attempting to calm down. After counting to twenty and back in his head, he finally managed it.

"I apologise," he murmured, glancing at Sherlock, "You did good Brother-Mine."

Fortunately Sherlock didn't seem to be in the mood to hold grudges, and merely nodded sharply in reply.

Mycroft paced the length of the yard twice more before throwing himself onto the top step, run his hands through his hair yet again.

"Do you think he's here because of us?" Sherlock asked, sitting down beside him.

"I doubt it," Mycroft sighed. "He's a homicide detective, remember that newspaper article we saw him in? I doubt tracking down runaways is his division."

"He wanted to talk to Angelo about something," Sherlock pressed on.

"I know," Mycroft murmured.

"What do we do?"

Mycroft sighed and scrubbed roughly at his face with his hands.

"I don't know," he admitted. "But we have to find somewhere else to hide out until he leaves. If he decides to talk to the kitchen staff, he'll come out this way."

"Right. So - where do we go?"

"To the coffee shop across the street?" Mycroft suggested.

"There's another one waiting in the car," Sherlock replied. "They'd see us sneaking out the back-"

"And would probably mention it to Lestrade, right - that's out then."

"What about next door."

"The pub? We would stick out."

"Yeah, if we stayed in there but-"

"It's on the corner and if we walked out the second exit-"

"His partner wouldn't see us, exactly!" Sherlock cried, already leaping off the step and dashing towards the pubs back door. "Come on!"

"Alright," Mycroft replied, dusting off his trousers as he walked over and took Sherlock's hand. "But we're going to have to be quick - the staff won't like strangers wandering through their kitch- ...hang on."

"What?" Sherlock cried.

With his stomach sinking with dread, he asked, "Where did we leave our bags?"

Sherlock's eyes widened with horror.

"Oh the sofa," he all but squeaked.

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut.

"Do you think he'd recognise them?" Sherlock whispered.

"Do you want to take the chance?" Mycroft asked.

"What do we do?"

Biting his lip Mycroft glanced at the door then Sherlock, then back at the door again.

"Stay here," he whispered.

"Like hell I will!" Sherlock cried.

"It'll be quicker if I just go in now, I'm older - nobody would notice something was off at first glance," he hissed, gripping Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock shook him off.

"And what if someone came around here and found me hanging about huh?" he snapped. "Do you think they might recognise something off about that?"

Mycroft's frown deepened.

They were running out of time.

"Come on!" Sherlock insisted, tugging his hand, "If he sees them, and recognises them, we're finished!"

Mycroft hesitated a moment longer before, with a loud groan, relenting.

"We stick together," he hissed, gripping Sherlock's hand tight. "We go in, we grab them, we come out, clear?"

"Crystal," Sherlock replied. "Let's go!"

Dashing through the door the sped through the kitchen, ducking and weaving their way around the two chefs, two remaining kitchenhands and the three waiters waiting to pick up their orders, before getting through the door and heading down the narrow hall to the staff room.

Mycroft stopped, and Sherlock skidded to a halt beside him.

"Can you hear anything?" he whispered.

Sherlock shook his head.

Nodding, Mycroft murmured, "Right then, let's go," before setting off once more.

They crept in to the staff room and flew over to where their bags were sitting on top of the sofa.

"You think they came through here?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft held up a hand and both brothers listened as hard as they could.

They could faintly hear a pair of voices coming from the Angelo's office. Sherlock crept closer, pressing his ear against the wall.

"Can you hear anything?" Mycroft asked.

"No," Sherlock said, "It's all muffled."

"We shouldn't be listening anyway," said Mycroft, chuckling their bags into the coat closet and covering them with blankets and one of Angelo's Parkas. "Come on."

"Wait, there's a duct."

"Sherlock-"

New voices flooded into the room.

"-urely you can understand why I'm so confused Mr. Del Sarto," Lestrade said. "You and the victim did have a longstanding an habitually hostile relationship."

"As I'm sure plenty of other people did," Angelo replied, clearly irritated, "Roger was an old con artist."

"Then why do business with him?"

"Because he's got the best produce in town," Angelo replied. "Even if you have to pay through the bloody nose to get it."

"I see."

"Look, loads of people had a problem with Roger. Why don't you go talking to them."

"I have talked to a lot of them. But many of those people weren't booked in to see him at the exact time of his murder."

"I told you, I didn't go."

"And yet there's no evidence to prove it."

"No evidence to disprove it either. It won't stand up in court I don't think."

"You are also one of the few people who have links, negative ones and all, to all three of the victims."

"I'm a business owner. I have connections with a lot of people."

"You had frequent rows with Roger Stefanovic-"

"I just told you, everybody had rows with Roger! Ask anyone!"

"You were in a relationship with Carla Jiménez."

"So I was."

"You parted on bad terms."

"She cheated on me with my cousin, quit without giving notice and tried to steal my staff when she set up her own shop. I'll be honest, I wasn't thrilled how things turned out."

"Tony Collins, another former employee of yours."

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged a confused glance.

"Yes he was," Angelo replied.

"You fired him."

"Yes I did," said Angelo. "He was an alcoholic. I put up with him turning up late. I put up with him coming in hung-over. I put my foot down at his coming in roaring drunk. I had to let him go."

"But you didn't  _'let him go'_ did you? You threw him out and told him to stay away from your restaurant."

"Yes I did."

"Patrons from the night have described it as quite the heated exchange," Lestrade remarked.

Angelo sighed.

"Detective Inspector, I run a restaurant. Tempers are known to flare up in our industry. When one of my chef's turns up unable to work properly, setting my whole team behind, costing me money - it annoys me. I fired him and told him to not come back. I don't deny it."

"I've got phone records telling me he received a phone call from you a few hours before his death."

"I called to make sure he had made it home," Angelo explained, getting steadily more agitated. "He was pissed."

"I've been told you were quite angry with him."

"I was bloody furious with him."

"And yet yet in spite of that you still called him to make sure he was safe?"

"Yes. The kid let me down but I didn't want him spending the night in a gutter somewhere."

"How considerate."

"I'm a very considerate bloke Detective."

Lestrade hummed, unconvinced.

"You have no alibi for any of the murders."

"I wasn't aware I'll be needing one," Angelo replied a touch snidely. "Will that be all, only - I have work to do, and I  _assume_ you do too."

"Just one more thing and then I'll leave you in peace."

"Yes?"

"I need a copy of Mr. Collin's work details, to cross check. You understand?"

"Yes. No problem. Filing cabinet is in the Crew Room, this way."

Mycroft felt his heart stop.

Sherlock ran to the window only to find it barred from the outside. Angelo's office door was creaking open. They were trapped.

Thinking fast, Mycroft frantically glanced about the room.

Window barred. Door not an option. No exits. They needed to hide. Pot plant, to small. Filing cabinet, obviously out. Coat closet, no big enough. The two sofas, impossible to hide inside of and wouldn't cover them from all angles... unless.

"Sherlock, push the sofa against the wall!"

"What?"

"Just do it!"

Thanking every deity he'd ever heard of for Angelo's ability to talk up a storm when he was indignant about something and DI Lestrade's being a tolerant enough man to simply hear him out, Mycroft dashed over to the second sofa and pushed it across the room and against the wall, before going to help Sherlock push his over to meet it. The two arms now formed a right angle, leaving a convenient box of space between them and the corner of the room, inside which they could hide. The only way anyone would see them was if they were to walk over and look down.

"Come on," Mycroft hissed, as Angelo and Lestrade begun walking down the hall and towards the room.

Mycroft had only just jumped inside and all but flattened himself to the ground when the door was eased open and the two men walked in.

"Here you are," Angelo announced.

"Oh you get it," Lestrade sighed, flopping down and on the sofa, making Mycroft's heart stop anew and prompting Sherlock to clap a hand over his mouth. "I don't want to screw up your system."

"There isn't a system," Angelo gruffly replied, "This may take a while."

Lestrade merely grunted an acknowledgment.

Thankfully it didn't take an incredibly long time to find Tony's records, which was good because Mycroft was starting to go dizzy from holding his breath for so long.

"Here," Angelo sighed, thrusting the file at Lestrade, who, with a put-upon sigh, stood from the sofa.

"Look mate, I'm just doing my job," Lestrade said, and for a terrifying moment, he was standing right over the boy's hiding space, although his back was turned to them.

"I don't take being accused of murder very well I'm afraid," Angelo retorted a might heatedly.

Lestrade sighed.

"Fair enough."

"Will that be all?"

"For now, yes," Lestrade replied, before finally stepping away from the corner of the room and walking towards the door. Pausing briefly to remind him to not go 'booking any holidays' before leaving once and for all.

Angelo lingered in the room for a second longer, before slamming the filing cabinet drawer shut and storming out himself.

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged wide eyed glances. Angelo was a suspect, the chief suspect by the sound of it, of a triple homicide.

"He couldn't have done it," Sherlock said later that night whilst he and Mycroft lay on their respective sofas, fluffing his pillow within an inch of its life. "He just couldn't have."

"He's capable of it I suppose," Mycroft replied. "If properly provoked."

"Angelo wouldn't kill three people Mycroft!"

Mycroft sighed.

"I'd like to think not," he said, glancing over at where Sherlock had finally flopped down, stretching himself the full length of the sofa. "We are practically living with him after all."

"So what do we do?"

"Do?"

"To prove him innocent," Sherlock said, eyes wide but determined.

Mycroft frowned.

"We don't do anything," he said. "We keep out of it."

"What?"

"We keep out," Mycroft repeated firmly. "If we start snooping around, before too long we'll get caught up right in the middle of it, which is - needless to say, the last thing we need."

"We can't just leave it."

"We can."

"He could be arrested!"

"If he didn't do it-"

"He didn't!"

"-then he won't be," Mycroft sighed.

"Please," Sherlock scoffed. "How can you trust the police?"

"The professionals you mean?"

"The idiots."

"Sherlock!"

"It clearly wasn't Angelo," Sherlock snapped.

"How do you know?" Mycroft asked.

"I know Angelo."

"As do I, and though I don't believe him to be the culprit, that doesn't mean with have any evidence to prove it."

"Then all we have to do is-"

"Stay put and do nothing," Mycroft firmly replied. "That's exactly what we  **have** to do little brother."

"But he could be arrested Mycroft!" Sherlock cried.

"We could be arrested Sherlock," Mycroft retorted. "No. We keep as far out of this fiasco as is possible - and that is final."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue further but (shocking both himself and Mycroft) was silenced by a firm glare from his brother.

"Our first and foremost concern is keeping ourselves safe," Mycroft said. "We can't do anything to jeopardize that."

Sherlock scowled and flipped around so his back was to Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed. Turning onto his stomach, he leaned over and rested his hand on Sherlock's bony shoulder.

"Angelo's a grown man Brother-Mine, he can take care of himself."

Sherlock merely huffed in reply, shaking Mycroft's hand.

Pausing long enough to lift his brother's blanket over the aforementioned shoulder, Mycroft flipped back over onto his back, folding his arms behind his head and turned to stare out of the small window to his right, trying hard to ignore his own unease at the ordeal.

"Try not to think about it," he murmured aloud, though whether it was directed at himself or his brother, he wasn't sure.

Sherlock refused to talk to him for days following Lestrade's visit, much to the amusement of the staff and the irritation of Mycroft.

"Luca, can you tell my brother to pass the salt."

"I'm sitting right beside you."

"Luca."

"Michele, Basil says-"

"Yes I heard him," Mycroft snapped, grabbing the salt shaker and placing it down a little more firmly than necessary in front of Sherlock, muttering all the while, "Just once, can't you behave like a grown up."

Sherlock poked out his tongue and continued to ignore him.

The silence was finally broken when Mycroft caught him, in spite of his specific orders to the contrary, asking questions about DI Lestrade's investigation.

"Why can't you just leave this alone!" he cried after dragging him out to the back of the restaurant once more.

Tugging his hand free Sherlock snapped, "Angelo helped us. That's why!"

"How very valiant of you," Mycroft retorted. "And just who, pray tell, will help us when we get caught in the middle of this? Please, just tell me that."

"We won't!" Sherlock moodily snapped.

"How do you know!" Mycroft cried. "This is the last time I'm going to tell you this Sherlock. Leave. The case. Alone."

Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring defiantly off to the side of Mycroft's head.

"Don't make me order you," Mycroft sighed, rubbing tiredly at his temples.

Finally focusing on Mycroft Sherlock merely snarled, "I'd like to see you try," before storming back into the kitchen.

Sherlock's antics aside though, things didn't come to a head for a further week. In that time officers from The Yard were sent over to collect Angelo for 'a chat' with Lestrade a couple of times, but the man himself had yet to return, for which Mycroft was infinitely grateful.

By the time everything finally went to hell, Sherlock was even beginning to lose interest in the case and Mycroft had begun to hope that it would all just blow over.

But of course, that would simply be too simple.

It was half past four and the sun had only just set. They were making hasty preparations for what was promising to be a busy evening, wiping everything down, preparing ingredients, wrapping the cutlery in napkins. Luca was in even more of a tizzy than usual (apparently he'd wanted them to have made more progress by 2nd November ('Christmas is around the corner and I'm working with snails for chefs!')).

In fact, he'd been right in the middle of a rant he'd been reciting word for word for the past five days when a loud clatter from the Dining Room caught them all by surprise.

Then the shouting started.

"What the hell is going on in there?" Luca grumbled, eyeing the door along with the rest of kitchen staff.

"They're arresting Angelo!" Sherlock cried, bursting into the kitchen.

With loud cries of surprise and outrage, the others all rushed through the doors. Mycroft tried to grab a hold of Sherlock, so they could make a run for it or hide at the very least, only to find to his mounting frustration and terror, that he was in the lead of the pack.

Groaning, he reluctantly followed everybody out in the vain hope of finding his brother before Lestrade and his underlings got a hold of him.

The dining room was in chaos, packed with the entire restaurant's staff bellowing defences for their employer and obscenities at the police, whilst the police barked back at them to remain calm as Lestrade attempted to handcuff a furious Angelo.

"I'm telling you I didn't do it!"

"We can discuss this down at The Yard Mr Del Sart-"

"No we'll discuss it here!" Angelo roared. "I have not bloody murdered anybody."

"Then tell me where you were on the days the victims were murdered," Lestrade snapped back. "This isn't a vandetta against you Mr Del Sarto, but the evidence is weighing against you. If you'd just tell me-"

"I told you, I went out for a walk," Angelo grit out.

"Right, take him away," Lestrade sighed.

"No!" Sherlock cried, rushing forward, and Mycroft was certain that he was about to have a heart attack.

"Lockie!" Lestrade cried. "What are you doing here? Where's your brother?"

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut in an uncharacteristically childish (and ultimately ineffective) hope that when he opened them this would all turn out to be a nightmare.

"He's over there," Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft sighed. It didn't work.

"And he's telling the truth. He didn't murder anybody."

"Lockie, listen-"

"No you listen!" Sherlock cried, "You're supposed to be a detective, a professional! How can you idiots not see the evidence right under your nose!"

Mycroft uttered an almost silent whine of despair. They weren't going to get out of this.

Lestrade frowned down at him but Sherlock refused to be cowled.

"It's obvious he didn't do it. How can you not see you blind, stupid, lazy-"

"I think that's just about enough out of you," one of Lestrade's officer's growled, grabbing the back of Sherlock's shirt and yanking him back away, earning a pained yelp from Sherlock.

Well, in for a penny in for a pound Mycroft figured as he surged forward and pushed the officer, yanking his brother away from his grasp and, with Sherlock under arm, turned to leg it whilst they still could. They got a whole two paces closer to the door before they were grabbed by two more officers, promptly pulled apart and Mycroft's arm was twisted sharply up behind his back.

"You let him go you stupid-"

"Brother-Mine, perhaps we should lay off the insults just for the time being," Mycroft hissed, wincing as the officer tightened his grip.

"He's hurting you!" Sherlock cried.

"Oi! Rance! Let the kids go," Lestrade snapped,

"But Sir!"

"Now Constable," Lestrade growled, glaring his man down until both Mycroft and Sherlock were finally released.

"Thank you," he muttered, rolling his shoulder.

"Don't be polite to him!" Sherlock cried. "He's the enemy!"

Mycroft sighed.

"Remember when I told you to keep out of this?" he hissed, "This is  **not** what I had in mind!"

"You said they were competent!"

"Oh you remember when I say that do you? And yet the 'Do nothing' and 'Leave the case alone' somehow went right over your head."

"Just because I'm not a coward like you!"

"I am not a coward you little nitwit! I was looking at the big picture! Something  **you**  seem to be incapable of!"

"And how does the big picture help stop Angelo from getting arrested exactly?" Sherlock bellowed.

"If you haven't noticed  _Brother Dear_ he is getting arrested anyway! In spite of all of your pig-headed, short-sighted efforts! Except now, just as I said we would be, we're stuck right in the middle of it!"

"Not if I can help it," Sherlock snarled, narrowing his eyes determinedly before spinning about to face the rest of the room.

"Angelo Del Sarto is not a murderer!" he announced for all to here. "It's obvious! If you can't see that for yourselves than I'm astonished you have survived this long."

Mycroft flopped down in one of the vacant chairs and covered his face with his hands. Foster Care had been one things, but the way Sherlock was going they'd be lucky to get out of this without being sent to a Juvenile Prison.

"And what's so obvious about it?" Lestrade asked.

Mycroft glanced up.

His arms were crossed over his chest and he was frowning, but his head was tilted to the side and as far as Mycroft could see, he seemed more interested than infuriated. How odd.

Sherlock, of course, took no notice of this and barrelled on, chest puffed out and face alight with excited determination. He was in his element, the absolute centre of attention.

"For one, he was on the wrong side of town when Roger Stefanovic was murdered."

Lestrade blinked.

"Eh?"

"He was on the other side of town," Sherlock irritably repeated. "Stefanovic was murdered in Harrow but Angelo was in Wandsworth hous- uhhh..."

"Yes?" Lestrade prompted.

Sherlock glanced meekly over his shoulder at Mycroft who leaned back in his chair, pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, "We really must work on your startling lack of foresight."

"My," Sherlock whined.

Rolling his head onto his shoulder so to better see the man, Mycroft drawled, "Angelo, may my brother please reveal to the good Detective Inspector what you were  _really_  doing in Wandsworth? I assure you it's in your best interest. Circumstantial or not, they have enough to send you down for a triple homicide."

Angelo glanced from Mycroft to Sherlock, utterly stunned.

"He knows?" he asked.

Mycroft rolled his eyes again.

"He knows," he confirmed.

With a surprised blink, Angelo turned to Sherlock and with a slow nod said, "Go ahead."

Sherlock spared time enough to shoot him an apologetic grimace before spinning around once more, back in full form and announced, "He was in Wandsworth, breaking into his little brother's ex-boyfriend's flat."

A heavy silence fell across the room.

"How do you know that Lockie?" Lestrade asked, a deep crease forming between his knitted brows.

"Oh it's obvious!" Sherlock cried. "His brother came to the restaurant really early that morning, real worked up. And then, he snuck out right in the middle of the lunchtime rush. Angelo never does that. I thought he was just going out the back for a cigarette, he  _does_ do that sometimes. But when I went out to see what was taking him so long, there was no sign of him. Then, I saw him come back an hour and a half later with a bag of stuff, which he put in his office, where his brother had been all day. His brother and he went to talk to real estate agents the next day, I saw the brochures. But whilst they were out, Billy asked me to go and fetch the menus from his office. The bag was still there, and it was open. I was curious, so I had a little look inside-"

"You did what?" Mycroft cried.

"Oh like you wouldn't have done the same!" Sherlock cried.

"I wouldn't have!"

"Lazy-

"Nosy-"

"Boys! Focus!" Lestrade barked, cutting both brothers off short. "Lockie - you were saying..."

Sparing Mycroft a parting glare Sherlock continued, "I looked in his bag and there was just a whole bunch of clothes, a photo album, a very old teddy bear and some well-used books. Sentimental stuff. His brother-"

"Dante," Angelo gruffly announced. "His name is Dante."

Nodding quickly, Sherlock continued, "Well Dante left the following evening and he took the bag with him."

"So you're saying he broke into somebody's house and now his brother is in possession of stolen goods?" Lestrade asked.

"Thought you were trying to help kid," Constable Rance chuckled.

"I am and you're missing the point, you idiots!" Sherlock cried. "They weren't stolen goods, they were Dante's. His boyfriend was horrible, he came here looking for him that one time, remember?"

"Oh we remember," Billy grimly answered for the staff. "Swearing his head off, threatening everybody. We were about to call in you lot."

"You see, horrible. We've all seen Dante come here after fights with him. But on the day of Roger Stefanovic's murder, he had a major row with his boyfriend and they split up. Except this time, Dante had had enough. He came to Angelo, his big brother, for help. Clearly he had left without any of his belongings, that's how he turned up in the morning, so he either asked or Angelo offered to go and fetch some clothes and a couple sentimental things. Angelo was furious when he left, I'd say he was looking forward to a fight with the boyfriend, right Angelo?"

"Oh yeah," Angelo growled, fists clenched tight at his sides. "Bloody bastard would have deserved everything he got."

There was a chorus of approving hums and grumbles from the staff.

"I agree," Sherlock continued. "But he wasn't there was he? Your knuckles would have been reddened at the very least, if you weren't arrested that is. Not to mention, he was a big guy, boxer. I completely believe you could hold your own in a fight Angelo, but he would have gotten a couple of punches in at the very least. And yet there were no signs of a fight at all, just a nasty scratch you got on your arm whilst breaking in  **because**  he wasn't there. Did you break a window?"

"Picked it's lock," Angelo replied, smirking down at him. "Caught me arm on the latch whilst I was climbing through it."

"Brilliant!" Sherlock cried. "Nobody cleans the latches - you should be able to find DNA evidence there- no, get the details later! I'm on a roll! Anyway - the papers said Stefanovic was killed around midday, that's right isn't it?"

"Yes it is," Lestrade replied. "He was found half past one. Hadn't been dead for an hour."

"Well Angelo left at quarter past twelve. It would have taken him around a half hour to get to Dante's old flat by the tube, give or take. You should have DNA evidence placing him there and you might be able to catch him on CCTV around it or maybe the station. Then probably a further twenty odd minutes breaking in and collecting Dante's things and then another half hour to get back. He was only gone from quarter past to half past one, you can see that for yourself when you seize the security camera tapes. There was no time to take a trip out to Harrow to slice and dice Stefanovic."

Lestrade frowned.

"And you're sure about all that?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

Lestrade glanced over at Angelo.

"And you're willing to confess to all of that?" he asked. "Keep in mind if it turns out to be true, I'm still going to have to arrest you for it."

Angelo tilted his chin up defiantly.

"You're going to arrest me for helping my baby brother are ya?"

"No I'm going to arrest you for housebreaking," Lestrade retorted. "The baby brother bit can come up in court where it belongs. Besides, I'm not even sure whether or not he's making all of this up."

"I'm not!" Sherlock cried.

Lestrade scoffed.

"Alright then, you have a nice story for Stefanovic's murder," he said. "But have you got anything for Jiménez or Collins?"

A smug grin quickly spread across Sherlock's face.

"I haven't got anything for Jiménez," he replied. "It happened before My and I met Angelo. But I do have rock solid alibis for Angelo at the time of Tony Collins' murder?"

"Is that so?" Lestrade murmured, brows raised speculatively.

"Yeah! Me and My, we're his alibis."

Mycroft frowned.

"It was our first night here, remember?" Sherlock asked, spinning around to face him. "We went out for coffees and hot chocolate by that 24 hour shop by the Thames."

"Yes," Mycroft slowly replied. "I remember."

"That's why I wouldn't let it go," Sherlock announced. "He had a proper alibi and wasn't using it because he was trying to protect us!"

Mycroft sighed.

"Alright, I get the point," he grumbled, glancing guiltily up at Angelo. "Sorry sir."

Smiling fondly, Angelo shrugged.

"Looking out for little brother's before all else. I understand that."

A grateful smile tugged at the corners of Mycroft's lips.

"Do you actually have any proof?" Lestrade asked.

Mycroft sighed and stood up from his chair, fishing his wallet out of his pocket and announcing, "Beside our word you mean? Yes, I was the one who bought the drinks. I kept the receipt. Sentiment. First pay check and all that. Here. I'd check the shops security footage, you should find us there around half past eleven. The same time Mr. Collins was murdered, if the papers are to be believed."

Taking the scrap of paper, Lestrade glanced down and sighed, stowing it away in his coat pocket.

"We'll get right on that then," he grumbled, running a hand tiredly over his face, only to be cut off by an indignant, "You cannot be serious!" from amidst the crowd.

Mycroft, Sherlock and Lestrade turned as one as Constable Rance stepped out, eyes wide and incredulous. "You're letting the word of two brats derail months of work  _sir_?"

There was a loud chorus of unimpressed grumbles and sneers from the staff, and both Luca and Billy looked just about ready to start rolling up their sleeves and starting something with the officer. However it was Lestrade who, with narrowed eyes and clenched jaw, stepped forward and squared up against his subordinate.

"That's the second time you've spoken out of line  _Constable._ I'd be  _very_  careful if I were you," he calmly announced, although the underlying anger behind his words were obvious to everybody. "Understand?"

"Yes sir," Rance muttered, glaring mutinously at the corner of the room.

"Good," Lestrade replied. "Now why don't you stop nursing your bruised ego by attacking the kids that may have done more for this bloody case than you have in the months we've been working it, and think for a moment. If Del Sarto isn't our killer, and after all that, I think there's a chance he isn't- what does that mean?"

Scowling, Rance obediently growled, "Our killer's still out there."

"Precisely. So don't you think it would be worth our while checking out the validity of these new leads, so we might be able to rule Del Sarto out as a suspect or if they do turn out to be false, rule out any doubt of his guilt?"

"Yes sir," Rance grumbled.

"It is our job after all isn't it? To detect."

"Yes sir."

"So we  **will**  be getting on to these leads and you are never suggest we overlook new evidence simply for convenience's sake. Are we clear?"

"Yes sir."

"Excellent," Lestrade replied, before stepping back and regaining command of the room. "Mr. Del Sarto, we still need to take you down to the Yard, but I assure you we will be investigating these new leads and should they turn out to be true, you will be ruled out as a suspect and handed over to the appropriate division to work out this housebreaking incident. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes Detective we do," Angelo replied, considerably calmer now he was being charged with a crime he'd actually committed.

Sherlock, however, was not impressed.

"But he was doing to to help his brother!" he cried. "It's not fair for him to be punished for that!"

"He still broke the law I'm afraid," Lestrade replied. "I can't overlook that."

"But-!"

"Basil," Angelo interrupted. "It's fine. I know some good lawyers."

Sherlock bit his lip, but nodded.

"Now you two," Lestrade sighed, "You're coming with us too."

Mycroft sighed.

"Why?" Puola cried, surging forward with the rest of the staff. "They've done nothing but help you."

"Which is exactly why I'm trying to help them!" Lestrade cried back, standing his ground as the employees of the restaurant and his own officers, who were attempting to control said employees, crowded around him. "I know as well as you lot that they're runaways, we've met before. They need to talk to a Social Worker."

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut as the blood roaring in his ears steadily blocked out his colleagues (no,  _former_  colleagues) cries of outrage. It was all over. They were going to get put in homes, or worse, get sent back home. God, he was feeling nauseous again. He couldn't move. Why couldn't he- the should be running and he couldn't bloody move!

And then someone was grabbing a hold of his shoulder and tugging him roughly to the back of the crowd. And suddenly he realised, he  **was**  moving now. He fought back for a brief moment before promptly freezing in place the second a swift slap connected with the back of his head and his captor leaned forward and hissed into his ear, "This really isn't going to work with their attention on you Michele."

"Luca?"

And they were clear of the crowd.

"You're going to have to run for it," Luca hissed, barely audible over the racket the rest of the staff were making. "That bloke will have you packed off in a children's home before morning."

Mycroft gulped, nodding quickly.

"Where's Sherlock," he croaked.

"Eh?"

"Sherl- oh, Basil. Where's Basil?"

"Here!" Sherlock hissed, running out from the crew room with Billy on his heels, duffle bag, violin case and umbrella in hand.

"Go on, then, get going," Billy urged, giving them both a light shove towards the door. "We'll hold them off as long as we can."

Nodding quickly Mycroft swung the duffle bag onto his back and grabbed Sherlock's hand.

"Thank you. So much."

"Go!" Billy and Luca urged as one, before rejoining the fray.

"Come on," whispered Mycroft, squeezing Sherlock's hand before dashing across the room and out the door.

They ran as fast as they could down the street, and then down another, and another, before they struck it lucky and were able to flag down an empty cab.

"We've got £30 pounds, how far can that get us?" he announced the second the jumped in, struggling to maintain an illusion of relative calm, so not to tip of the driver that they were in fact running away from a room full of Scotland Yard's finest.

The driver grimaced, taking the crumpled notes Mycroft shoved through the glass window.

"Camden area," he replied with a shrug.

"Brilliant, let's go," Mycroft cried, glancing nervously out the back window as Sherlock buckled in. "Now please."

"Alright, alright. Hold your horses," the driver scoffed as he turned back around, flicked on his meter and rejoined the traffic heading away from Angelo's.

Only once they'd finally made it a further ten blocks away did Mycroft's breath began to come easier.

"Well," Sherlock murmured. "That was..."

"Yes," Mycroft muttered, roughly scrubbing at his face. "Yes. Considerably."

"We got away though," his brother continued. "And Angelo's not being charged with murder and... and..."

"And we're without a job, friends, a place to stay and now, once again, have a detective hot on our heels," Mycroft growled under his breath so only Sherlock could hear him. "Not an ideal evening."

"But... can't we just go back. You know, in a week or two?" Sherlock asked, wide eyed.

Mycroft shook his head.

"Lestrade will probably be spending a lot more time down there, keeping an eye out for us," he sighed. "He's trying to  _do us a favour_  remember? He thinks he's doing the right thing and if tonight has proven anything, it's that the right thing is  _very_  important to him no matter how much hard work it requires. No, we need to steer clear of that place from now on."

Sherlock bowed his head, whispered an almost inaudible, "Oh."

"Oh," Mycroft quietly echoed.

They sat in silence for almost ten minutes, letting the events of the last half hour and the sounds of London rushing by wash over them.

Of course, it was Sherlock who eventually broke it.

"What do we do know?" he asked, glancing up at his brother. "Mycroft?"

Mycroft sighed.

"I don't know," he muttered.


End file.
